


The Tale of The Lonely King of Ferelden

by kwrites2222



Series: I'm Still Not Over Alistair Yet [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Star-crossed lovers trope, head canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 32
Words: 55,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9600278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwrites2222/pseuds/kwrites2222
Summary: And so, for many, many years Joanna Amell carefully tried to be forgotten, but for many, many years, King Alistair did not forget....





	1. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Well your faith was strong but you needed proof  
>  You saw her bathing on the roof  
> Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya  
> She tied you to her kitchen chair  
> And she broke your throne and she cut your hair  
> And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah_
> 
> \- From “Hallelujah” as sung by Jeff Buckley

Gather 'round and listen well to the story of The Lonely King of Ferelden, the great hero Alistair.

Our story begins, as most of its kind do, with betrayal, blood, and war. But you didn’t come here to hear about the Blight: the story is as well known throughout Thedas as the Chant of Light. The story that you’re interested in is that of our heroes King Alistair Theirin and his enduring love, the Hero of Ferelden Joanna Amell.

We begin at Ostagar, before our dearly departed King Cailan Theirin’s final stand against the darkspawn horde.

It has been said that, as soon as their eyes met, the ground shook and the skies parted to allow the sun to shine through the clouds, though this is likely utter nonsense. In any event, it is certain that Alistair was enraptured with our Hero Joanna as soon as he laid eyes on her. I could lie to you and tell you that Joanna’s beauty was unparalleled, or that she appeared as if little birdies helped her dress herself each morning, but I will not.

Joanna Amell was a beautiful woman, there was no denying that. Her face was heart-shaped and full, and her sharp jawline sloped towards a stunning, though slightly lopsided, smile. Her deep brown hair framed her face, falling into waves past her shoulders, thought she preferred to wear it up and out of the way lest it get in the way of her casting. A button nose sat underneath the true beauty her face commanded: a pair of large, emerald-green eyes that sparkled with magic and gumption. It is said that the eyes are the window to the soul and, as Alistair stared into them, lost in their depths, he felt her being reach out and touch his.

It is speculated that Joanna was taken by Alistair’s handsome face and stature, that his sarcastic humour was well met by her own, and that she saw through the pain and hidden suffering in his eyes to something more. Something that may have reached out and touched her, too.

Or so the story goes.

We know what comes next: Joanna is successful in her Joining and, thus, our Wardens were given a seemingly menial task of lighting the beacon to signal Teyrn Loghain’s forces to charge in, flanking the darkspawn and, hopefully, granting victory to the army at Ostagar.

But we _know_ the story: the task was not menial, and the Wardens fought through throngs and throngs of darkspawn to finally light the beacon. In turn, Teyrn Loghain quit the field and left Cailan, the Wardens, and the rest of the army to die in agony.

The legend tells that Flemeth, the famed Witch of the Wilds, swooped down upon our heroes and plucked them from the top of the Tower of Ishal. I am not one to imbibe in such silly tales, but I must admit that I do not see any other plausible explanation as to how our Wardens survived the onslaught, so I have no choice but to continue the legend of Flemeth’s involvement.

Regardless, as we know, the Wardens used their treaties and rallied support from all corners of Ferelden. The dwarves under the aged King Harrowmont, the Dalish elves of the Brecilian Forest, and the mages of Kinloch Hold all pledged their support. Our Wardens even journeyed to the Temple of Sacred Ashes and found the Urn, taking but a pinch to cure beloved Arl Eamon of his sickness and free his abomination son from the grip of the desire demon that had claimed his soul.

But you know all this. You’ve heard the tales, sung by bards and minstrels, and told in taverns and courts alike.

Do you know, however, how the love grew between Alistair and fair Joanna? How it only grew stronger with each trial they faced and overcame? How it blossomed into something pure and rare and beautiful, like a rose growing on a dead bush?

Joanna became special to Alistair; so special, in fact, that he agreed to lay with her with the express intention to have her be the only woman he laid with for the rest of his life. It was that intention they shared and accepted as fact: that they would be spending the rest of their lives together, side by side, until one fell in battle or to The Calling. Their faith in their love was so strong they believed that nothing could break it.

Though we know now that to be untrue.


	2. In the Aftermath of The Blight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Only know you’ve been high when you’re feeling low  
>  Only hate the road when you’re missing home  
> Only know you love her when you let her go  
> And you let her go_
> 
> \- From “Let Her Go” by Passenger

It is unknown how both Alistair and Joanna survived the final battle against the Archdemon. The stories vary, and it can only be surmised that it is our heroes and their companions that truly know the truth of what happened that day. Some legends say that it was King Alistair, and not Joanna, that actually struck the killing blow against the fearsome beast, but what is most widely believed to be true is that our Hero herself delivered the killing blow: that the spell she cast sheared the blighted dragon's head clean from its neck! It is this version that I am choosing to believe is true and, thus, will defer to it as the correct retelling of our Hero's past.

Nevertheless, the Archdemon was slain and the darkspawn retreated hastily back into the abyss, and Ferelden was able to sit back and celebrate. They regaled their Hero and, a few weeks after the slaying of the great menace, they celebrated their new king.

The coronation of King Alistair is a curious thing: many who were in attendance are quick to mention how joyous and extravagant the event was, but few ever acknowledge the behaviour their new king displayed at his crowning. Alistair was stoic and reserved, his smiles fleeting and forced, he was obviously distracted, and his eyes constantly searched the crowd.

For what, you ask? No, you see, the true question is _: for whom_? The official reports say that the Hero of Ferelden did not attend the king's coronation, but we now know it to be true that she did. For our Joanna is a woman of valor, grace, and loyalty, and she would not have left the man she cared about to be without her presence or support on his coronation day, even if it caused her pain.

Perhaps he saw her in the crowd that day, this we do not truly know. We do know, of course, that their paths did cross several times in the year or two after The Fifth Blight. Our Joanna was made Warden-Commander for her deeds, and it was because of her that the great City of Amaranthine still stands to this very day. Our king greeted her at the Warden strong-hold Vigil’s Keep before the turmoil began, and gave her his blessing to do whatever she could to save the city. The story that rang through the barracks after that day was that the king could not look the Warden-Commander in the eye, but lingered at the Keep longer than was necessary.

But it is said that their paths crossed too often, our star-crossed lovers. King Alistair was said to have been in agony each time he was to see the one woman he would ever truly love but could never truly have, so our Joanna made sure that their paths stopped crossing, lest her king ever be in agony. She disappeared from his view and his grasp, even leaving Ferelden for long stretches of time to allow the king to forget her under the guise of carrying out tasks for her Order.

Why our Joanna did not remain at the king's side as his mistress in the shadows is no mystery: our Hero is not one to remain in the shadows. Our Hero never wished to be 'the other woman'. Our Hero would never wish to cause another woman pain. 

And so, for many, many years Joanna carefully tried to be forgotten, but for many, many years, King Alistair did not forget.

Noblewomen from all over Thedas were thrown at him; beautiful, worthy women of good breeding and powerful families, women who had been seasoned for a job as important as queen, but King Alistair rejected every single one of them. Every proposal of marriage was torn to shreds by the king's hand, though he repeatedly assured his uncles that he knew the full extent of his duty as king to produce an heir, but Alistair never married nor dallied with any woman. Or man, for that matter. 

And hence, because he insisted on carrying on alone and refused to take a queen, our good King Alistair became known throughout his kingdom as "The Lonely King", though he was also referred to by his uncles Eamon and Teagan as "The Stubborn King"... all in an affectionate way, of course.

His uncles fretted for our king... secretly, of course. They knew that the king's heart had already been claimed, yet they did not know where to find her. Both Arl Teagan and Eamon covertly sent spies and scouts to search for our Joanna throughout the years, but they never received word back, causing both to realize that Joanna did not want to be found. This, however, did not deter them.

King Alistair also sent scouts, spies, and soldiers to look for her, though these men would deny it. The people were not to ever be aware of their king's great weakness, nor were they to ever know how passionately their hero King Alistair pined for the Warden-Commander mage.

For the Chantry teaches us that magic is meant to serve man and never rule over him, so it was fluke of birth that denied our Joanna the crown. Though we know that she would have been the finest queen to King Alistair Ferelden had ever seen, it is in the Chantry we must place our faith and loyalty. It is also in the Chantry that we place some of the blame. 

Our King began to question his faith each morning as he awoke in his empty bed after dreaming of her smile. He questioned it as he sat at the massive dining table for breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, the room buzzing about with servants, staring at the seat beside him where she would have been, gobbling up the food like she was a starving waif. He questioned it as he walked through Denerim with his armed guard and heard a laugh so very much like hers that he wanted to fall to his knees and scream out her name. He did scream it aloud, sometimes, when he was alone and afraid of what still moved in the darkness. He cried for her. She was the light, but she was not there to help him find his way.

The Lonely King sits in the darkness, reaching out for his light, but she is not there. 

As the years continued on, the Fereldan people became less preoccupied with their Lonely King, and more so with the murmurs of turmoil within the Circles. Nine years after the Blight, the Circle of Magi rebels, and Ferelden is thrown into chaos yet again. The Fereldan people are shocked when King Alistair offers the rebel mages sanctuary, and many begin to question his motives: does he truly ally himself and, by default, Ferelden with the rebels, or is he simply hoping his actions will catch the eye of the mage Joanna? The ex-Templar King could not _truly_ trust the rebels, could he?

The war between the mages and Templars begins to tear Ferelden apart, and the king struggles to contain the chaos. Many nobles run from their lands, leaving the king responsible for their bannorns, arlings, and cities. The Lonely King begins to bow under the pressure. Eamon notes that the king's nightmares are increasing, and he calls out for her in his fitful sleep almost every night.

 

 _Joanna! Joanna! JOANNA!_  

 

And where is our Joanna during this time, you ask? She has been in Ferelden for the past few years, attending to her Warden-Commander duties and studying darkspawn and The Blight. When the Circle rebels, she attempts to leave for Kirkwall, to aid with the efforts there, but she is spotted at the docks by one of Alistair's men, and retreats back to Lake Calenhad before he can catch up to her. His report back to the king is spotty, but the news of her alive seems to invigorate King Alistair. Meanwhile, Joanna has found Kinloch Hold still mostly intact, and spends her time salvaging what she can from the library before journeying across the lake and camping an inconspicuous distance north of Redcliffe. Her efforts have now turned to researching The Calling, and she has developed a keen interest in Grand Enchanter Fiona, not only because Fiona was once a Warden, but because Joanna has found out Fiona's most dearly-kept secret: that Fiona is Alistair's mother.

This is where we find our Joanna, ten years after the Blight, still trying to save herself, Alistair, and her Order from certain, premature death. She has heard about what has happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes from her only remaining close friend and confidante, newly appointed Inquisition spymaster Leliana, has seen the unsightly tear in the sky, and has felt an odd disturbance in the Veil as she nears Redcliffe village, but she will keep her distance from the place for fear of meeting the one man she has been so carefully keeping at a distance for so long. She knows that it is only a matter of time before Alistair comes to Redcliffe's aid.

And what of our Lonely King? He is in Denerim, dealing with the panic over the recent events there and the fear that the Orlesian civil war will spread into his land. But the murmurs coming from Redcliffe grow more and more disturbing as the days go by, and he will need to leave to personally attend to business there soon.

We find our Lonely King in his study, poring over the letter that has just arrived from Arl Teagan.

Eamon is there, too, standing behind his nephew and reading the letter over his shoulder. The news is not news to Eamon, though, as he was sent a pre-emptive warning from his brother a day ago. He is always a step ahead… well, usually.

"We must ride to Redcliffe immediately," King Alistair says to Eamon, his voice tight with frustration.

Understandably, Eamon is not keen on the idea. "Alistair, it is too dangerous for you to leave Denerim right now. The roads are rife with bandits and rebel mages and rogue Templars."

"Teagan has been sent from Redcliffe castle by a magister, Eamon! I cannot allow this to stand. I must go."

Eamon has always known that he cannot truly tell Alistair to do anything; there has always only been one person that Alistair would listen to, but she is gone and has stayed gone. Still, her influence is felt in every decision Alistair makes, and Eamon is afraid that he will eventually lose the king to her memory. He must double down on his efforts to find her. "You have a duty _here_ , Alistair."

"My duty is to my people. Of all Ferelden, and Redcliffe is my home. I do not need a full retinue; it will only draw attention. I will go incognito on a supply caravan."

Joanna is even still present in the way Alistair speaks: though Eamon knows the king's own confidence in himself wanes greatly, he still barks commands confidently like she once did. Secretly, Eamon wishes Joanna would return to Alistair's side, and he would be the one to tell the Chantry to hang itself and its preconceptions about magic. But he would be branded a raving heretic.

Eamon is no stranger to heartbreak: Isolde's premature death two years ago, coupled with Connor's struggles within the Circle have worn on him greatly. He is familiar with loneliness and hardship, but he is certain that he has never felt despair in the way Alistair has. On several occasions, he has stumbled upon Alistair sitting on the edge of his bed, staring up at the framed painting of a single rose he'd had commissioned almost immediately after his coronation. Eamon does not have to know the intimate details of Alistair and Joanna’s past relationship to know what the rose represents.

Now Eamon wants to protest with every bit of his might, but he knows he cannot. He will still send the full retinue of soldiers to protect Alistair, but will send them after Alistair leaves, and they will be there when he arrives in Redcliffe. Instead, he gives in, "Very well, Alistair. We'll have several agents accompany you... inconspicuously."

"Thank you. I'll begin packing."

* * *

 

It's raining as Joanna makes her way towards the crossroads where she is to wait for the caravan to take her into Redcliffe, and the clouds have made it hard for her to discern the time, but she is certain that she is early. She doesn't mind the rain, especially after Leliana's latest missive included a new hooded robe made especially for her by ‘The Inquisition’. It is keeping the water from soaking into her skin, and she is warmer than she has been in weeks. She must remember to send Leliana some of the rare herbs she's collected as thanks: Leliana's Herald of Andraste is apparently a skilled mage who can find use for just about any herb, and Joanna knows she should help any way she can, even in something as small as a few satchels of elfroot and embrium.

As she leans against the sign post, a memory hits her: 

_Have you ever licked a lamppost in the middle of winter?_

You see, when Alistair and Joanna were just simple Wardens, they were free to be themselves, and to be themselves together. Alistair's silly sense of humour was what truly stole Joanna's heart, and he had snuck that question into what, up until that point, had been a very awkward conversation. It was, for Joanna at least, part of the conversation that would be a turning point in their relationship. 

And when I say "turning point", well... I mean sex. Oh, come on, you didn't think there  _wouldn't_  be sex in this story, did you? I did mention they were star-crossed lovers, now didn't I? And lovers they were, but this isn't the time for bawdy recollections of their intimate activities. Not yet, anyhow. 

Now, back to our Hero.

Joanna, leaning against the signpost, was lost in her memories and didn't realize how late the caravan was until it finally arrived and she realized how numb her legs had become from standing so still for so long. Cursing herself for her reminiscing being so distracting, she climbs aboard the caravan after paying her way to the driver she has become familiar with, and settles in beside a group of conspicuously dressed men. Immediately, her heart stops.

After years of being friends with Leliana, Joanna has developed keen observational skills that have helped her gauge many ‘hairy’ situations and, more importantly, friend from foe. Admittedly, it has made her a better Warden, and has saved her skin many times, and, now, sitting on this caravan, she catches a glimpse of a dagger on the belt of one of the men. This would not be so unusual if the dagger wasn't marked with the Guerrin family crest: these are either Teagan or Eamon's men. She is surprised that they are still sending people after her.

And, also due to Leliana's influence, she notices their shoes: they are too well-made and polished and _new_ to be simple soldiers. These are spies, agents, or... _bodyguards_.

Have you ever swallowed vomit before? You know, that surprise vomit that rises in your throat and gathers in your mouth, usually at the most inopportune times? This is what our Joanna was currently experiencing: either gulp down the putrid combination of bile and her breakfast, or vomit off the back of the caravan and risk drawing attention to herself.

 _Bodyguards. Shit_. She tries to slow her breathing, and she ducks her head deeper into the hood, her eyes darting around the caravan rapidly from behind the relative safety of her robe, until they land on another hooded figure across from her, slumped over in sleep, his own hood barely concealing his identity.

She is sharing a ride into Redcliffe with the Lonely King.


	3. Over the Red Cliffs and Far Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And if you’re in love, then you are the lucky one  
>  ‘Cause most of us are bitter over someone  
> Setting fire to our insides for fun  
> To distract our hearts for ever missing them  
> But I’m forever missing him_
> 
> \- From “Youth” by Daughter

Her body is stiff and almost numb from her efforts to be as inconspicuous as possible as the caravan finally reaches Redcliffe. Joanna can see the gates of the bustling village just ahead, and they pass several contingencies of well-armed Inquisition soldiers. Leliana has told her of the Inquisition’s efforts, and that Cullen Rutherford is commanding the army, and Joanna smiles involuntarily. She would very much like to see Cullen again, even if it was just to make him squirm under her gaze, but it has been so long that she doubts she has even been a flicker in the templar’s mind. She eyes the Inquisition troops under her hood, afraid to look up for fear of accidentally meeting eyes with King Alistair, though he has mostly slept and kept his face hidden himself throughout their journey. At first, Joanna was certain that she would be discovered, that the men around her would have been able to hear her heart beating and breaking so fast and so loud in her chest, but their attention was never on her and constantly on their king. Just as well.

She has spent the entire journey trying not to be noticed and trying to keep the encroaching memories from her mind, but she has been successful only at not being noticed. The memories of fonder times she can handle and she welcomes, but it is the memory of his face when he told her that his duty must come first and she replied that she was not willing to stand by him as his mistress that she cannot stand to have in her head. Joanna had always been able to read Alistair like a book, but it was within that conversation that he closed himself to her. She’d always assumed that he had locked up his heart and hidden it that day, but she took it with her when she left and, unbeknownst to our Hero at this time, she still held it.

Joanna remembers his face when he told her that he loved her – that he’d _always_ love her – before she left the slay the Archdemon: his eyes had narrowed in a visible wince and his mouth had twisted painfully into a smile that she saw past to the fear and darkness beneath. She remembers the look of relief when she returned, covered in the dragon’s blood, that was automatically replaced by one of heartbreak. And, of course, she remembers how lost and distracted he looked on his coronation day.

Though, if I may interject, we still do not know if there was interaction between the Hero of Ferelden and King Alistair at his coronation.

The caravan jerks to a stop in front of the gates, and Joanna rises instinctively, every muscle in her body telling her to run. But Alistair rises at the same time, and they bump into each other. He puts a steadying hand on her arm and stoops to try to see her face, but she recoils and turns so he cannot see her face nor her brimming eyes. 

"My apologies, my lady," Alistair mutters.

She nods, but does not say anything, knowing he will recognize her voice immediately, and then places her hand into the outstretched one of the driver, hopping down from the back of the caravan, trying to keep her hood in place and her wits about her.

"Do you smell... _cinnamon?_ " she hears Alistair hiss to one of his agents.

The agent does not reply, but one of others says to the driver, "We had paid to be taken further into Redcliffe, good man. We’ve an appointment to keep."

The driver grunts an acknowledgement, shaking his head as he climbs back atop the vehicle and grabs the reins. He dips his hat to Joanna and she raises her head to smile at him; he has been the same caravan driver since she'd been camped at Lake Calenhad, and he never seems to recognize her. He has always been nothing but pleasant to her, and she feels that he at least deserves a smile; Alistair and his agents would have been on the wagon with him since Denerim, and she can only imagine how that had gone.

But Joanna lets her guard down for too long, allowing her face to show as the driver flicks the reins and pulls away. She tries to conceal her face again, but it is too late, and the last thing she sees before she pulls the hood back over her face are Alistair’s familiar light brown eyes, wide with recognition and shock, as the caravan moves past her into Redcliffe.

* * *

 

_It… cannot be._

He would know her face anywhere. He would never have taken a second glance at the mysterious, hooded woman if she had not smelled like that particular blend of cinnamon and rosemary - like _her_ – and then he would have never seen her face.

Joanna's face. 

She had smiled up at the driver, but it had faded when her eyes had met Alistair’s. She'd seen him, too. Had she known it was him during their trip together? How could he have been just inches away from her and not known his own heart was sitting across from him? His heart pumps fiercely, and he spontaneously yells, "Stop!" to the driver.

The horses whinny in protest as the driver yanks on the reins, and Alistair jumps down off of the back of the caravan, his agents left confused and stunned. He hears them scramble behind him, but he pays no attention to them: his eyes are still locked on Joanna's hooded figure, who apparently hadn't noticed the caravan's abrupt stop, and was focused intently on a small map she now held in her hand.

The accounts of what happened next are varied. Some say Joanna fled, causing King Alistair to chase her down and tackle her, driving her into the mud. Others say that she tried to knock him off of his feet with a spell and he was knocked back into the mud, but eventually caught up with her.

The true account, as we know our Joanna, is that King Alistair broke into a jog to close the space between them and tripped on his robe, falling into the mud hopelessly not two feet in front of her.

It can be speculated that the thought entered Joanna's mind to leave him there. But that is not our Hero's nature, nor did she relish the sight of her love on his knees, covered in mud and helpless. 

And so, she runs towards him and helps him to his feet, abandoning her great effort to hide herself from him. It has been years since she has spoken to him and, of course, since he has heard the sweet sound of her voice. It is music to his ears, and, for just a sweet, sweet moment, he forgets that he is the King of Ferelden, currently covered in mud, trying to ignore the searing pain in his ankle.

"Are you alright, Alistair?"

The accounts of what happened next are _not_ varied, and all are told, and have been told, the same: when Alistair rose to his feet, his hands grasped tightly in hers, their eyes meeting and holding, his heart finally back where she was supposed to be, he placed both hands around her neck and kissed her as though it was to be the last kiss he would ever experience.

They say that the two hooded figures stood there for many long minutes, their bodies pressed up tightly against each other, their faces connected, like statues. For those passing them who did not know that it was the King and the Hero of Ferelden, it simply looked to be a young couple engaged in a passionate embrace and not the long-awaited reunion of our two star-crossed lovers. 


	4. Your Hand In Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _All I want is nothing more  
>  To hear you knocking at my door  
> 'Cause if I could see your face once more  
> I could die as a happy man I'm sure  
> When you said your last goodbye  
> I died a little bit inside  
> I lay in tears in bed all night  
> Alone without you by my side _
> 
>  
> 
> \- From “All I Want” by Kodaline

We’ve established that our great Hero Joanna and King Alistair reunited and kissed in the middle of road leading up to Redcliffe, and I am sure that you do not take any pleasure in hearing about the two young, very attractive people standing in the middle of the road kissing, correct?

No? You _actually_ wish to hear about it?

Fine. They kissed. Blah blah blah, lips on lips, perhaps slip in a bit of tongue… good enough? _Sigh_ , I didn’t think so.

Very well, I will recount the _entire_ _blasted thing_ to you then, shall I?

* * *

 

The world was lost to them in those minutes as they stood there, greedily kissing each other and standing still as if afraid to move and realize it had all just been a wonderful dream. But, as they both came to realize that neither were dreaming and both were wishing that the moment would never end, the moment ended, and it was just the two of them standing there, staring into each other’s hooded, mud-covered faces, red-cheeked and out of breath.

Alistair is still leaning heavily on Joanna, and she gives him a worried look. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head and attempts to put weight on his ankle, but the look of pain on his face tells Joanna that something is wrong. She waves over one of his agents and together they help the king limp towards a bench near the gate. Joanna crouches down in front of Alistair and tenderly removes his shoe, looking over his ankle carefully, and then rubs her hands together. Sparks fly from them and, before she came place them on Alistair’s injury, one of his agents has drawn his blade and has pressed it to her throat.

“I don’t think so, _mage_ ,” the agent hisses at her.

Joanna rolls her eyes and holds her hands up. “Relax. I got over wanting to kill him years ago. I’m trying to help.”

Alistair places a hand on his agent’s arm, forcing him to lower the blade. “You will _not_ threaten Warden-Commander Amell again, do you understand?”

The agent balks at Joanna, recognition finally setting in, and bows his head sheepishly. “Of course, Your Grace. I humbly beg your forgiveness, my lady.”

Joanna shrugs and places her hands on either side of Alistair’s mud-soaked ankle, closing her eyes and allowing the healing magic she’d perfected to flow through her into him.

“Thank you, Joanna,” Alistair murmurs, the pitch of his voice low and intimate. It causes her heart to beat in her chest and tears to well up in her eyes at the familiarity of it.

“Does that feel better?” she asks.

He rolls it over and smiles down at her. “Yes. You still have a gift for the healing arts, I see. Wynne would be proud.”

Joanna does not return the smile, though she very much wants to. She is determined to remain stoic and indifferent towards him, even if it kills her, because she believes that it will cause the both of them the least pain in the long run. But the situation is oddly comfortable, and she does not feel awkward in the slightest. Alistair is not acting as though he is feeling awkward either, even though there is only silence between them now. She wants to take a step back in time and experience their kiss again and live in that moment forever, but she is becoming increasingly aware that she has business to attend to just as Alistair, no doubt, does himself.

“I almost didn’t recognize you at first,” Alistair finally says, breaking the silence, “Are you not carrying a staff anymore?”

“No, it’s safer that way. I don’t truly require one anyways, and if I carried one I could be targeted as one of the rebels.”

“Ah, yes, the rebels,” Alistair says, rubbing the back of his head nervously, “I assume that you’re in Redcliffe because of them?”

“In a sense. May I assume the same of you, Your Majesty?”

He gives her a confused look at her formal language, and she can feel his eyes searching her face. He nods slowly, his eyes still searching. “Yes… well, no, not right at this moment. We were to meet with one of my uncle Teagan’s men in Redcliffe and be taken to where Teagan has been staying outside of the village. Though I am afraid that we have likely missed him by now.”

“You can still make it if you hurry,” Joanna mutters, meeting his eyes carefully to gauge his reaction to her perceived indifference.

Suddenly, it is not King Alistair standing in front of her, but the Alistair standing by Flemeth’s fire, filled with grief over Duncan’s death and worry about her. It is the lost, downtrodden Alistair that chose to follow _her_. It is the Alistair with all of the scars and loss and hope… without the crown weighing on his head. It is the Alistair that she fell in love with. And then, just as quickly, King Alastair is back. He straightens up and looks her directly in the eye.

“I request that you join us, Warden-Commander,” he says slowly, taking on her formal tone, “this is looking like we may be fighting for our lives, and I have it on good authority that you are very good at this sort of thing.”

The words are out of her mouth before she can even think about it, “No, Alistair.”

He sets his jaw. “Think of it as less of a request and more of a command. Warden or no, you are still a mage outside of the Circle. You are still in my country.”

The beefier agent of the two steps forward and grabs her wrist, and she tenses automatically, setting her centre of gravity in case she needs to run. “Your king has made a request of you, Warden,” the agent grumbles, “I suggest that you comply.”

“May I speak with the king privately, please?” she snarls, yanking her arm away from the agent.

The agent sighs and nods, turning towards the others and telling them to run ahead to greet Teagan’s man in Redcliffe. “I hope he’s still there.”

They step away from the grumpy agent, and Joanna allows Alistair to see her hand. “Please don’t do this,” she pleads, “it is not a good idea.”

“Joanna…” he says, placing a hand on her cheek.

She pushes it away and sighs, suddenly feeling very exhausted. “I have worked very hard to disappear, Alistair. I have my own duty, and I need to see it through. You understand, don’t you?”

Joanna did not mean for the last part to come out as a slight, but it did, and it is taken as such. Alistair recoils like she has stabbed him, but he squares his shoulders and sets his jaw yet again. His voice is not the low tone of intimacy anymore, but the low, gravelly tone of discipline, “I have not made a _request_ , Joanna, I have made a command. We can speak once we reach Teagan. I am sure he’ll be pleased to see you.”

With that, Alistair turns and walks back to his agent. Joanna’s finger tingle with rage and ice, and she knows just how easy it would be to snap her fingers and turn both men into temporary ice sculptures, but our Joanna is not one to leave the King of Ferelden frozen in the midst of such danger. Our Joanna is not one to refuse a command by her king.

So she pulls her hood even lower over her head and grits her teeth, shoving her hands into her robe and walks behind Alistair into Redcliffe.

* * *

 

As nothing worthy of note happened during the brief journey from Redcliffe Village to where Arl Teagan was hiding, I will not bore you with a recount of wagon wheels turning, horses smelling like horses, and our Hero shooting King Alistair exasperated glances as they were jerked back and forth on the crumbling roads.

As their wagon pulled up to the Rainesfere Estate, Alistair felt an odd sense of satisfaction, despite Joanna’s continual annoyed glances in his direction. Travelling with her again… well, it was as if they were both still Grey Wardens travelling Ferelden in search of allies bound by the treaties. He found himself wondering if she still possessed the treaties.

Though Teagan was made Arl of Redcliffe, he was still the Bann of Rainesfere and, thus, had held onto his estate and troops within the bannorn. Rainesfere had, fortunately, gone relatively untouched by the mage-templar war, and the estate was calm and serene as their wagon slowed to a stop by the front gate where Teagan was waiting. Like Alistair, Teagan had not married, choosing instead to tackle any issues in his arling and bannorn himself. It kept him wildly popular with the people and he was a useful asset to have in the king’s pocket.

“Alistair!” Teagan cries, rushing towards the king. “I am so glad to see that you’ve made it in one piece. Eamon’s soldiers arrived about ten minutes ago.”

Alistair rolls his eyes, but smiles. “Of course they did.”

Teagan’s eyes flit through the others filing off of the caravan. “Eamon said that you were only travelling with three agents. Who is…”

If I may interject again: there was a rumour that spread shortly after the Blight that Arl Teagan was infatuated with Joanna Amell, and I wholeheartedly believe it to be true. I dare you to name one man who did not at least fall partly under Joanna’s spell upon meeting her, but Arl Teagan did not _partly_ fall under Joanna’s “spell”. He fell entirely under it.

So, it can be assumed that, as Joanna pulls back her hood and finally frees her head from her robed disguise, Arl Teagan is rightly speechless.

Alistair, no doubt, has heard the rumours about his uncle, but it does not seem to worry him in the slightest as he laughs at Teagan’s gaping jaw.

“Pick your chin up off the ground, uncle. You remember Warden-Commander Amell?”

Joanna smiles for the first time at Teagan as she outstretches her hand for him to shake. “Arl Teagan. Always a pleasure.”

To her, and everyone else’s, great surprise, Teagan bends to one knee and plants a kiss on Joanna’s hand, continuing to hold it as he stares up at her as though she could run away at any moment.

An interjection: she could have.

“ _Joanna_ ,” Teagan gasps, “have you any idea how long we have been searching for you?!”

She chuckles nervously, “I believe I do, Arl Teagan. Your men are about as easy to spot as a Pride demon, you know.”

“And yet they never seem to see _you_.”

“Teagan, please get up,” Alistair says, “You’re making _me_ feel awkward.”

Teagan gets to his feet and, ever full of surprises, envelops Joanna in a fierce hug. Now, I do not know _exactly_ what he whispered in her ear, but the stories are similar enough that I can make a guess that it was, “Thank you for coming back. Ferelden needs you.”

I can, on the other hand, be certain that what Arl Teagan _meant_ was, “Thank you for coming back. Our King needs you.”


	5. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _But if I be wrong, if I be right  
>  Let me be here with you  
> If I be wrong, if I be right  
> Let me stay here in your arms tonight  
> And I have been wrong, I have been right  
> I have been both these things all in the same night  
> So if I be wrong, if I be right  
> Let me be here with you tonight_
> 
> ¬From “If I Be Wrong” by Wolf Larsen

Joanna had forgotten the simple pleasures of a meal cooked for her by someone else, in a real kitchen, with real, quality ingredients. Though there was _something_ special about the way rabbit tasted after she’d zapped it that made her stew tasty, the meal that she was currently devouring far surpassed her measly rabbit stew. She was unaware that all eyes were on her until Alistair cleared his throat loudly, and she raised her eyes to meet the five or so pairs staring back at her.

And, though I have sung the praises of our Joanna, that she was the picture of grace and civility, you must understand that she was as defiant and rebellious as she was graceful and civil, and she was currently sitting in a dining room among men of the court, in the company of her former lover, in an estate where she didn’t want to be.

So, when I tell you that she wiped the butter from her face with her dinner roll and then bit into it like a rabid animal tearing into its victim, keeping eye contact with Alistair’s grumpy agent as she did so, I would hope that this description does not cause you to be surprised. Because it is exactly what she did.

She does not care for their idle conversation, and instead preoccupies herself with what remains on the plate in front of her, though it is not much. After her plate is basically licked clean, Joanna busies her mind with a daydream of the actual _bed_ that awaits her. She cannot remember the last time that she’d had the pleasure of curling up beneath actual covers on a bed that rose above the ground, though she chuckles silently to herself as she anticipates herself missing her bed roll halfway into the night.

And, as the plates are being cleared and the men have retired to the drawing room for a spot of ale, Joanna slips up to the room that has been prepared for her and throws herself gleefully down onto the bed. The mattress bows under her, and she lays there on her back, staring up at the stone ceiling, cursing herself inwardly for partaking so readily in the comforts of Teagan’s estate. A knock at the door surprises her, and she opens it, expecting Alistair, but instead finding Teagan’s servants standing with jugs of steaming water to prepare her bath. She cannot help it, but she stands watching them as they do so, her eyes greedily staring at the steam rising from the stone bathtub; it will be an odd feeling, she thinks, to bathe in warm water again. After this, the pond near her campsite where she’d been cleaning herself will look like a muddy puddle.

The servants bow out of the wash closet attached to her room, and she undresses hastily, throwing her clothes on the floor of the bedroom as if they’d be torn off, and slips into and under the warm water, holding her breath and shutting out the rest of the world. If she could live under water, she would.

The water muffles the voice of the man who has just entered her room, calling out her name. She is unaware of any presence in the room at all until she feels the unmistakable feeling of someone standing over her, and her eyes shoot open under water to see a shadow leaning over the bathtub.

She panics, knowing she is naked and vulnerable, and sits up in the tub, sputtering and flailing at the intruder in a pathetic attempt to deter him.

“Joanna! It’s me!”

It is Alistair. She panics again, knowing she is naked and vulnerable, and she is out of the bathtub in a flash of skin and wet hair, and reaches for her robe to cover herself with. She turns to him, a dripping, glowering sight, trying to appear formidable, but her voice cracks as she asks, “What do you want?”

He sighs and walks towards her, his hand buried in his golden locks. “I wanted to speak with you about…”

She waits, clutching her robe awkwardly over her breasts, her backside completely exposed to the (thankfully) closed bedroom door, praying that the bathwater will still be warm after Alistair leaves.

“Well, everything,” he says, finally find the words.

Joanna is upset. Frustrated. Angry. Tired. She is not in the mood to hash out old regrets that she had worked so hard to lay to rest, and she is certainly not ready to bare her heart and soul to him. She does not ever wish for him to know how the desire inside of her has ached for him since the minute she realized he was sitting across from her on the caravan to Redcliffe. So she remains silent, standing in the centre of the room, her robe only covering half of her, staring down the Lonely King as he fights to find the correct words.

“Back at Redcliffe you said… uh, you said that you’ve worked very hard to disappear. What did you mean by that?”

Joanna wishes she could claim that she is unfazed by the way he is looking at her, but it would be a colossal lie. But this is not a conversation for now, or for… well, ever, for her, so she elects not to answer his question. “I don’t want to speak of this.”

“I do.”

“Oh, I see,” our Hero retorts, never the shrinking violet, “is this another ‘request’ being made by ‘my king’ that I am _obliged_ to fulfill?”

“If that works for you, then… yes.”

She has forgotten how frustrating the man is. How stubborn. Her wet hair is plastered to her forehead, and she is certain that she resembles a wet rat, but she tries her best to stand her ground and look as though she cannot be intimidated. It doesn’t seem to work, as Alistair simply raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest, his lips pressed firmly into an impatient line.

So she decides to give in and, in a moment of pure frustration, throws her hands above her head, dropping the robe from her chest and unintentionally flashing King Alistair. She hates herself for her absent-mindedness, though she knows it is nothing he has not seen before, but at least she now has an excuse to throw the robe properly over her shoulders to cover her _entire_ body this time.

After securing her robe, she looks back up at Alistair, who has now sat himself on the edge of her bed, she is greeted by a look of concern.

“You… you’re _thin_. And you’ve got scars that I don’t remember. _Everywhere_.”

She scoffs, “It’s been ten years, Alistair. My fight didn’t end with the Blight.”

“I suppose not,” he says gently, his face awash with pity and pain.

Joanna cannot take it anymore. “Don’t you _dare_ pity me! Don’t you dare look upon me as if I am fragile or breakable. I am _not_. You should know this, Alistair! You tried to break me once, but you couldn’t. _Stop trying_.”

“You disappeared because of me?” he whispers, bracing himself against the edge of the bed as if he might be sick. “You’ve been hiding all this time… from _me?_ ”

She deflates. It is time for the truth. All of it, if he must have it. “Yes.”

Alistair looks up at her, and she is struck by him. He is angry and sad and terrified, all at once. And he is at her mercy. She feels as if she could poke him gently with a single finger and he would shatter. But she waits for him to speak.

When he does, it is only one word that he can muster, “Why?”

Joanna is torn: she has promised herself that she will be truthful with him, but she has worked so hard for so many years to prevent this very moment. She is not daft; she realizes that her absence and disappearance likely caused him pain, but not the level of pain that is currently twisting across his face now. And, as tough and strong and aloof as our Joanna can try to appear, she is breaking inside. For we know why the Hero of Ferelden disappeared, don’t we? She left to protect his heart and her own, unknowing that she had been carrying his heart with her, and neglecting her own, the entire time.

A decade’s worth of effort hiding from something she’d unwittingly been carrying with her. A _decade_ of avoidance, denial, faded memories, and a heart snatched from the chest of our Lonely King of Ferelden. Now his heart had returned and his chest had burst open, willing to accept it back, but she was unable to let it go.

And now Joanna knew it. She had not solved any problems by running, she’d only delayed them. But she is unsure as to what they will accomplish by opening these old wounds and admitting their desires; Alistair wants her and, oh _how_ she wants him, but she will not agree to be a shameful secret nor a mistress that could cause pain to any future bride. She cannot. So, after a decade of running, here they are as they were before: the great impasse. The abyss.

“I thought I was protecting you,” she begins to say, choosing her words carefully, “I thought that my absence would cause you less pain than my presence ever would, and I… I was selfish, too. I couldn’t bear to be near you and not with you, even after we’d agreed that we would end our relationship. I was weak and misguided, and I ran from it all. I ran from you.”

He doesn’t respond.

“If you need an apology then I will tell you that I am sorry, though I do not believe it changes anything,” she continues, “Part of me still believes that it is better as it was. This… _distraction_ has already diverted my plans, and I know that you cannot afford to be distracted either. We do not have the luxury of time to figure out us, Alistair. Redcliffe needs you, and this… whatever _this_ is, does not deserve the attention our duties do.”

He still does not respond.

“Now, please, leave me. I need to return to my bath. I can leave here before you wake in the morning,” she turns towards the door and extends her arm, her heart beating in her throat and her eyes aching with stifled tears.

You are wondering why she continues to try to run, no? I could speculate and tell you that she was simply picking her battles and continuing to put the people of Redcliffe and Ferelden ahead of her own issues, but perhaps the answer is simply that she did not have the tools to deal with it right then. Can you imagine running from a single moment for decades only to have it suddenly thrust upon you, striking you as you are down?

Our Lonely King does not have the tools to deal with the moment, either, but he will not run. He will not accept her flawed logic or defeat. Our Alistair believes that the candle is still lit, thought it flickers under heavy bombardment, but it is still lit. Though it has been delayed for a decade, he is finally staring down the chance to fight for the love he thought he’d lost, and he doubts that there will ever be another opportunity to do so.

And, simply, he loves her. There is no finer reason to fight, he knows, and there is no finer woman to fight for.

He rises to his feet as if to leave, but instead of walking out the door, he closes the distance in between them and places his hands gently on her bare hips underneath her robe, brings his forehead down to hers, and closes his eyes.

“Nothing will be fixed if you keeping running, Jo,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed.

She does not resist nor pull away from him, but stands there, her forehead pressed to his, her eyes staring up at his eyelids, and her heart screaming at her that he is right.

“But we have an unsolvable problem,” she counters, her voice shaky with anticipation, “Any ideas?”

Alistair opens his eyes and smiles sadly, kissing her forehead gently and bringing a hand up to her cheek, tilting her face up towards his. “Isn’t it your job to come up with the plan? Mine is still to deliver unpleasant news and witty one liners.”


	6. Only Fools Rush In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I remember it now it takes me back to when it all first started  
>  But I only got myself to blame for it and I accept it now  
> It's time to let it all go, go out and start again  
> It's not that easy_
> 
> \- From “High Hopes” by Kodaline

Now, our Joanna had long ago accepted that the one thing that she can always be sure of is that she knows less than nothing, but she never considered herself to be a woman who was easily surprised or left ‘holding the bag’ as it were. As a mage, she must constantly be on her guard and ready for anything, and she has always prided herself in her high level of readiness and adaptability.

But the intense feeling of déjà vu that washes over her as she wakes up the next morning beside King Alistair, his arm draped over her, surprises her. The absence of any kind of regret about the previous night surprises her. Alistair still in her bed surprises her. Her longing to stay there forever, wrapped in his arms as she’d done for so many nights so long ago, surprises her.

Joanna lays still, lest she wake the sleeping king, and squeezes her eyes shut. The memory she calls forth is of the first time she woke up beside Alistair after their first night together all those years ago: she remembers how she awoke to Leliana singing softly to herself and her beloved mabari Ollie whining as he begged Leliana for a bit of her breakfast, and then felt the weight of Alistair’s arm over her and the warmth of his body pressed up against her. She remembers the way she felt that she could do anything, as if all of the blood, sweat, and tears were worth it, because it had brought Alistair to her side.

And, of course, she remembers how she innocently, and perhaps naively, thought that they would be together forever.

Alistair stirs behind her and retracts his arm, moaning groggily. She stills herself and pretends to be asleep, and she feels him prop himself up behind her and lean over and softly kiss her bare shoulder.

“Joanna?” he whispers, tenderly placing a hand over the spot he’d kissed.

She pretends to just be waking up, rubbing her eyes and turning onto her back to look at him. The smile he gives her nearly shatters her, not because it is sad or lonely or regretful, but because he looks like himself. He no longer looks like the Lonely King or like the lost man he seemed at his coronation, but the same Alistair who so nervously presented her with a rose and explained how much she meant to him. He was the same Alistair who had timidly propositioned her, telling her that she made his head explode, but only in the best way. He is _her_ Alistair, at least for right now.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, shifting towards her and snuggling into her shoulder. She places her lips to his forehead and tries to put the urge to get out of bed and face the rest of the day out of her mind, but she cannot.

“We should get up,” she says regrettably, and moves to get out of the bed, but Alistair stops her.

“We were supposed to talk last night and, well, we didn’t exactly _talk_.”

“Did you come up with a miraculous solution in your sleep?”

“Not exactly, but I am certain of one thing.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“I do not ever want to be without you again.”

He says it so confidently, so assuredly, as if the sentence could move mountains or make miracles or perform an even more daunting feat: change her mind. Joanna knows that he does not mean to put her in an awkward position and make her choose between staying at his side and shirking her duties, but it does. She allows his words to tumble around in her head, her heart trying to soak up every bit of them because it is in complete agreement with them, but she must complete her mission so that she can give him what he – what _she_ – wants. She cannot, or perhaps will not, see how she can do this without walking away again.

“But y-you’re king,” she manages to spit out. “And we each have our duties to attend to.”

“I know.”

“I cannot be queen. And you need an heir.”

“I know.”

“So we’re back to where we were ten years ago.”

Alistair winces at the memory: his hasty conversation with her after the Landsmeet, after he’d accepted the title of king, after he’d decided that he would need to turn his full attention to his destiny, his people, and away from her. Oh, how he’d regretted his decision almost immediately, but he’d told himself that it was the right choice; he would need a clean slate to be the best king he could be to his people. He wishes that he could go back and time and tell himself that he would have been a better king if he’d never let her go.

Joanna takes a deep breath, trying to read his face. “I have an important mission. I seek to end The Calling… for both of us. That’s why I was going to Redcliffe. I need to speak with Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

“I can help with that.”

She is frustrated now. “I think you might be confused: this isn’t ten years ago. You can’t just up and leave to attend to Grey Warden business anymore: you wanted to be king, you chose to be, and you are.”

“And The Calling will eventually take me, unless you achieve your goal. Grand Enchanter Fiona is here in Ferelden because I allowed her and her people to be, and I seek an audience with her as well. She is in my debt,” Alistair’s eyes narrow and his voice grows thin, “especially after she had a hand in sending Teagan from Redcliffe Castle.”

“I would appreciate the assistance, but after that I…”

“I know that you will need to follow your leads and I cannot, in good conscience, _request_ you to stay here with me. I would never want to, and I am sorry that I forced you to come here with me. But I could not let you get away, not again, not when I have been searching for you for so long.”

“What do you want from me, Alistair?” Joanna cries, her voice pleading and heavy with frustration.

Alistair rolls onto his back and places his hands over his chest thoughtfully. “I want to know if you still love me.”

Joanna answers automatically, before she can even think about what she is saying and the repercussions of it, “Yes.”

“You do?”

It is too late to retract, and she is still determined to tell him the truth, so she replies, “I’ve never stopped.”

The smile that appears on his face is so bright that it could light up the room. “Then I would like to trade you a promise for a promise.”

“This isn’t similar to a question for a question, is it?”

“No,” Alistair chuckles, turning his head to meet her eyes, “I need your promise that you will always return to me.”

“And your promise?”

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes momentarily, but he is confident and composed as he opens them again and says, “I promise to never marry or take a lover, so that you can stay true to never having to cause another pain or be my… what did you call it? A shameful secret?”

“I cannot ask that of you.”

“You aren’t: I am offering it. I have thought about it for many, many years, not just because of you, but because The Calling has also been on my mind. If it takes me before I can produce an heir, and I do not even know if I can without a ritual that I am not content to repeat, then I must name one. If this were to happen, I would name Eamon my regent and, if he ever fell, Teagan would take the throne.”

“What if we can stop The Calling?”

“Then my promise will still stand. And… well, perhaps _we_ could try? I mean, we’re truly not too _old_ to try.”

“To try what? Have a _child?_ An illegitimate child?”

“You think I’m crazy.”

“I always have, but this may just cross the line from crazy to utterly insane.”

“I’ll have you remember that I was an illegitimate child, and yet I took the throne.”

Joanna is speechless, but she cannot ignore the warm feeling in her heart that is telling her that maybe crazy is the only way to go. But she has always thought of herself as a woman of reason and logic, and she knows that it is a long shot: a fool’s plan to seek the best of both worlds. The best of both worlds very rarely exists, and life has a funny way of listening to your plans and then laughing in your face.

“And what if the child is a mage?”

“Then we keep trying.”

And, though she knows that it is foolish beyond all reason and logic, she allows herself to be a fool. She starts to laugh aloud, and the laughter spreads to every corner of her body, overtaking her entire being. It feels so good to laugh again, and she completely lets herself go, clutching her stomach as the laughter begins to ache in her belly, but she doesn’t mind. She cannot remember the last time she laughed, much less so intensely, and she feels happily weak. In a sense, she mourns the last decade of hiding and running, but she does not know how any other path could have lead her here. Back to him: back to the man she loves.

Joanna wipes the tears from her eyes and climbs on top of Alistair, straddling him and leaning down to kiss him, her eyes wild and her inhibitions gone. “We are fools, you know.”

He takes her face in his hands tenderly. “So I have your promise?”

“A promise for a promise,” she decides, “And the agreement to run this fool’s errand with you.”

And so we reach the part of our tale where our heroes have reunited, our star-crossed lovers have pledged themselves to each other yet again, agreeing to take a stand in the fight for their love, to learn from their past mistakes and not repeat them. Our Joanna has bound herself to our King Alistair and he to her, the promises they have made to each other as sacred as any vow could be.

But a fool’s errand is called such for a reason.


	7. Sacred Duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I know I make mistakes and I can let you down  
>  Don’t always find the words to say  
> For all this searching you’re the best thing that I’ve found  
> I’ll be hoping you stay_
> 
> \- From “Don’t Let Me Let You Go” by Jamie Lawson

For this part of the story, we will dwell in the mind of dear Arl Teagan Guerrin. Teagan, though as treasured to Alistair as Eamon, has his own arling and bannorn to look after, so he is farther removed from the goings-on in the palace than his brother, though Eamon keeps him very well informed. Especially when it comes to the king’s mental state. So, for the past ten years, Teagan has secretly worried for Alistair and, as I’ve mentioned before, sent many men to find Joanna. It frustrates him to no end that Joanna is ‘found’ on a chance meeting on the side of the road, and, though his infatuation with her is still strong, he is upset and angry with her for taking off with Alistair’s heart and leaving their king. Though, it must be noted, Teagan does not truly know what conspired between the two after The Landsmeet.

He has a lecture, a speech, prepared for her the next morning, and is pleased to hear her voice speaking to the servants in the dining hall. He quickens his pace towards the hall, running through what he wants to say in his head:

_Do you know how precarious a situation the kingdom has been in all these years?_

_Do you **know** how selfish you were to leave?_

_Do you know what your absence has done to him?_

_Do you want to join me in my quarters later?_

Teagan shakes the last thought off and chuckles to himself. _Must be blood magic for her to stay in my head these many years_.

He nears the hall and is about to burst through the door –

_Joanna! It is imperative that I speak with you **now!**_

-but another voice in the room stops him in his tracks. It is Alistair’s voice, light and carefree and… _laughing_. Teagan cannot remember the last time he heard Alistair laugh or make a sarcastic comment, and he is overwhelmed by the intense feeling of joy that washes over him, and braces himself against the closed door in front of him. He is rocked by a flashback: the first time he met Joanna, he remembers her beauty and confidence, but he remembers the way Alistair looked at her. He was so proud, so calm, so… absolutely in love with the woman that Teagan knew immediately, even after being apart from his nephew for so long, that Alistair only had eyes for her. Teagan was happy for them, and grew increasingly jealous as he got to know Joanna, but happy all the same.

And, then, another flashback: Alistair’s forced smile at his coronation, his constant scanning of the crowds until his eyes landed on her, and then the shock that Teagan saw jolt through Alistair’s body as their eyes met. In that moment, Teagan was ready to jump into damage control, but Alistair straightened up and continued to wave and flash his fake smile. Teagan lost Joanna in the crowd after that and can still only assume that she disappeared.

Oh, and how could he forget the still-new King returning from Vigil’s Keep and the bannorn, his face hard and his lips pursed tightly, screaming at nearly everyone in the castle to get out and leave him alone. Alistair hadn’t even allowed Eamon to stay, and they’d had to rent a room at the tavern for the night. They’d returned to the castle the next morning and found almost everything in Alistair’s wing of the castle destroyed: beheaded ceremonial knight statues that lined the halls, and axe in the center of one of the tables in the dining hall, many of the portraits (including the recent on of Alistair) marred with squashed vegetables and fruits, and his study turned upside down. They’d found Alistair asleep and hungover in the centre of the hallway, cleaned him up, fed him, and had never spoken about it again.

So now, even though he could hear Alistair laugh and chat happily with Joanna, Teagan was still angry. He burst through the door, his eyes wild.

Alistair looked up and cheerfully said, “Teagan! Sit, join us for breakfast.”

Joanna gives Teagan a confused smile, but nods and gestures to the bench they are sitting at. Something inside Teagan tells him that she is bracing herself because of his appearance.

 _Good_ , he thinks, _she should._

Teagan shakes his head in an almost maniacal fashion and descends upon Joanna as if he is a hawk and she is his prey. “Joanna,” he says firmly, “I need to speak with you privately.”

Now he can feel Alistair’s eyes on him, searing into his forehead as if he was pressing a branding iron there. Teagan tries to ignore it, but he can feel Alistair growing more protective and suspicious by the minute.

“Anything you need to speak to Joanna about,” Alistair says slowly, “you can say in front of me, Teagan.”

Teagan meets Alistair’s eyes then, and is taken aback by the way Alistair’s eyes seem to glow with contempt. He knows that Alistair is just being protective, but this is slightly ridiculous. Perhaps it is time to air out his thoughts. Teagan takes a deep breath and says, “I just wanted to ask Joanna if she is aware of how harmful her absence has been to you and to your kingdom.”

Alistair is on his feet in a minute and places himself between Joanna and Teagan, sinking his pointer finger into Teagan’s chest. “That is out of line.”

Joanna’s hand on Alistair’s arm is gentle and loving, but her face is sad. Teagan looks at her, and notices that she winces. She doesn’t even have to answer him, because her face is letting him know that yes, she is fully aware how harmful her absence was. Yes, she blames herself for much of the hardship Alistair and, by extension, Ferelden have endured. Yes, she’s sorry that she ran away. But there is something in her face that tells Teagan that there is more to the story than the simple fact of her just disappearance.

So, he deflates and sits beside her and gently says, “I am sorry. I may have doubted your intentions and thought you’d simply run away, but there’s more to it, isn’t there? You were never one to act without reason.”

Joanna gives Teagan a grateful look. “Would you accept misguided good intentions as an answer?”

Teagan returns her look with a confused one of his own.

“She was protecting me,” Alistair says quietly.

“From what?” Teagan asks, oblivious.

“From me,” Joanna answers, chuckling ironically, “from the pain that I was certain my presence would cause. But it was a double-edged sword, was it not? Everything I tried to avoid by running happened anyways. I’m just sorry it took me so long to figure it out.”

“So what now?” Teagan blurts.

Alistair and Joanna trade a nervous look, and Alistair sits again, nodding at his uncle to do the same. So Teagan sits, practically buzzing with anticipation, his heart hammering in his chest with trepidation and caution, but some part of him is oddly at ease at the same time. He hates the feeling; it is like living in limbo, waiting for some part of his feelings to be validated.

And so our star-crossed lovers tell Teagan of their newly-determined plan – their fool’s errand – that he plays a rather big part in.

The shock is dampened by the look of determination on each of their faces and the fact that Teagan has already known about him being named Alistair’s heir should Alistair fall to The Calling. And, while Teagan admires their determination to fight for their love and some semblance of a normal life, he is certain that it is not possible.

Teagan says the first thing that comes into his mind, “And what if it doesn’t work? What if you do find a cure for The Calling, and then you do have a child. Even if that child does not have magic, do you truly think that the Fereldan people will accept it?”

Alistair stiffens. “And why wouldn’t they?”

“Alistair, you cannot possibly think that there will not be severe repercussions to openly being in an – please pardon me, Joanna – an illegitimate relationship with an apostate. What happens if the next Divine is anti-mage? This just seems so… selfish!”

“Perhaps it is,” Alistair says calmly, “perhaps it is selfish not to want to be alone or in pain for another decade. But that pain was blinding me, uncle, don’t you see? I was not the king I could have been if Joanna had been at my side.”

“Some may sympathize with that, but many will argue that you are a puppet on the throne. They may call it blasphemy; that a mage is truly the one ruling over us. The rumours alone…”

“There will always be rumours. But the people will see that they are not true in time. It is not my job to make everyone happy, Teagan, it is my job to make the decisions they don’t have to, for better or worse. And I am making this decision not only for myself but for the Fereldan people. I am a better version of me when she is around. I…” Alistair looks over at Joanna and caresses her face gently, “I am _whole_.”

If I may draw your attention from the scene for a moment: there is a tale that many argue originated from Sister Nightingale (one of the foremost supporters of Alistair and Joanna’s relationship) that tells of the time that Alistair asked our Warden to spend the night with him. The tale goes onto say that Alistair, in his usual fashion, told Joanna that, and I quote:

_“Every time I’m around you, I feel as if my head’s about to explode. I can’t think straight. Here’s the thing: being around you makes me **crazy** , but I can’t imagine being without you. Not ever.”_

So, while some may say that Joanna was a distraction, I would argue that the only distraction Joanna would ever bring to Alistair would be to leave him again. Our Lonely King was distracted for ten years without her, and, returning to the scene, this is becoming more and more obvious to Arl Teagan as he listens to Alistair speak. He is pleasantly surprised by Alistair, speaking so clearly, calmly, and confidently, and holding himself as one would expect a king to. And, as much as Teagan agrees that their plan may be slightly foolish and susceptible to easy derailment, he is inclined to wholeheartedly support it. He will agree to be their fallback plan, as much as he already feels the burden of being king on his shoulders. It is not because he _wants_ to be king, but because, even in this short conversation, his faith and confidence in King Alistair is renewed.

Teagan stands and smiles. “So, I take it that you’ll be staying?” he asks Joanna.

A single tear runs down Joanna’s cheek as she looks up at him and beams. Her hand grasps for Alistair’s beside her, and he brings it up and tenderly kisses it, closing his eyes and letting his lips break out into a smile on her delicate skin.

“Yes,” Joanna answers him, “I’ll be staying.”


	8. Another Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Everyone thinks I dodged a bullet  
>  But I think I shot the gun_
> 
> \- From “Dodged A Bullet” by Greg Laswell

In the days that followed, as they formulated a plan to take back Redcliffe Castle, King Alistair seemed to change and flourish, like a rose blooming on a barren bush. He was commanding but calm, confident and approachable, and his decisions were swift and sensible. He only deferred to Teagan or Joanna for their opinions, but, at the end of the day, his decisions were his own and he owned them.

The soldiers, though they were Teagan’s, readily accepted Alistair as their commander, and the whispers throughout the barracks grew as it spread that The Lonely King was lonely no more. Rather than see her as a puppet master, the soldiers saw Joanna as a stabilizing force – the great motivator for their king, and many considered it a privilege to watch him come into his own and be the king that they’d had faith in all along. As was to be expected, of course, there were grumbles among the excited whispers, and the words _maleficarum, blood mage, witch,_ and _abomination_ were bandied about until Arl Teagan overheard and severely reprimanded one of his soldiers spouting off. The soldier was put on scullery duties and denied dinner that night, though it was said that Joanna herself snuck the man half of her dinner. After that, the grumbles lessened greatly until they lost their worth and disappeared altogether.

Though their days were largely spent apart: Joanna studious in Teagan’s large library and any information she received from Leliana and Alistair attending to diplomatic and political affairs in the morning and supervising and training the troops in the afternoons, they always found time for each other. Though both accepted that it would never be the same as it was before, and they found themselves tripping every now and then within their new reality, they collectively agreed that it was worth it each morning as they woke up beside each other.

One afternoon, however, Joanna’s research is interrupted by Teagan, who presents her with a large stack of letters. She gives him a confused look.

“Love letters from my many admirers?” she quips, giving him a broad smile.

Teagan chuckles and blushes, but shakes his head. “Love letters, yes, but from only one admirer.”

Joanna’s brow furrows even deeper as she takes the stack of letters from the arl and looks them over in her hand.

“You already know that Eamon and I sent people after you, but I only recently found out that Alistair sent some as well. Each time they left with a letter he’d written you, and each time they’d return with the letter and nothing of you. Instead of throwing out the letters, the agents kept them and gave them to my brother, and he kept them all these years. I’ve let him know that you’re here, and he sent these with his response.”

She swallows past the lump in her throat, examining the pile. Some were yellowed, others looked as if they’d been caught in a rainstorm, and one had a drop of blood on the corner of the envelope.

“They’ve been everywhere he thought you might be,” Teagan continues, “to every corner of Thedas, I believe.”

“Does he know that I have these?”

Teagan shakes his head. “I doubt that he knew that Eamon had them. Look, you don’t have to read them. I know that you’re choosing to leave what happened in the past and that Alistair has forgiven you and you him, and I don’t know what’s in those letters, but… well, shit, Joanna. You should know what happened when you were gone.”

“I’m not about to leave again,” she hisses fiercely.

“I know that, and you can choose to read them or not. Just… think about it.”

With that, Teagan turns and leaves her and the letters in the library, and she sits down slowly in the chair, pushing the books and scrolls aside, and sets the stack of letters down carefully in front of her. She bites her lip thoughtfully, staring at the letters as if they were a cake she is debating eating whole, and finally she makes her decision and reaches for the stack of letters, undoing the twine knot that was holding them together, and picks out one of the yellowed ones.

Alistair’s writing has always been something that surprised her: the script is flowing and elegant, and there are hardly any misspellings or errors. She knows that it is through his education as a Templar, but he always seemed to take pride in his writing, and she has recently seen him dismiss scribes in favour of sending and replying to missives himself.

The letter she has picked out is short, and the script is shaky, but it is unmistakably in Alistair’s hand.

_~~Warden-Commander Am~~ _

_~~Mistress Amell~~ _

_Joanna,_

_Thank you for attending my coronation yesterday. I ~~saw you~~ wanted you to know that I saw you in the crowd, and having ~~you there was~~ your support meant much to me. _

_I do not know where you are now, but if this does find you, please send me some form of reply. I am sorry for what I said to you, and I want you to know that I still love you very much. If nothing else, I could use your support and guidance._

_I need to know that you are all right._

_~~King Alistair The~~ _

_Alistair_

Joanna sets the letter down and gulps back the guilt that has risen in her throat, and reluctantly picks up another yellowed envelope and tears it open. The hand is less shaky and the words seem more certain, but it seems as though the quill has angrily been pressed hard into the parchment, and there are sporadic ink spots throughout the letter.

_Joanna,_

_Hopefully when you receive this the mess with whatever happened at Vigil’s Keep is dealt with. I have just returned to Denerim from the bannorn, and have ordered the entire castle to leave me for the night._

_I do not know if I should be so honest and open in these letters lest you never receive them and they wind up in a muddy puddle somewhere, but I cannot help myself. I will have faith that my words will reach you, and no one else. Failing that, then a large HELLO to whomever happens to be reading my private thoughts. Please don’t blackmail me._

_Seeing you at the Keep was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I tried to approach you as a friend, but I know that it was obvious that I could not. You looked lovely, even covered in all of the darkspawn blood, and wished I could have stripped from my armour right then and there and thrown on some Warden finery and joined you, but… duty and all that._

_I am infinitely proud of you, Warden-Commander, but I confess that I am constantly wishing that you were here. You occupy so much of my mind that today I had to ask Bann Alfstanna **four** times to repeat what she had just said to me. She became very annoyed with me, but that is something I’m used to dealing with._

_Please let me hear from you._

_~~Yours,~~ _

_Alistair_

Though the pain was increasing, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep the tears from spilling from her eyes, Joanna continues to tear open the letters.

_Joanna,_

_One of my men reports that he saw a woman bearing a striking likeness to you queueing to a ship to Kirkwall. I have been there, and I assure you that it is nothing special. I also highly doubt that your Warden duties would require you to go there, but I am sending this to Kirkwall in case the report is true._

_I understand that you are related to The Champion of Kirkwall, but I have heard that she has disappeared from Kirkwall alongside the mage that caused the Chantry explosion. I know that you are acquainted with Anders, but I beg you not to seek them out. He is a wanted criminal, and Amelia Hawke is actively being sought out by Divine Justinia. Regardless of your standing with the Wardens, you are still considered an apostate, and there have been increasing reports of rogue Templars simply executing people they **believe** to be mages. Please be careful, at least for my sake._

_If you are in need of sanctuary, please consider coming to Denerim. I can protect you._

_Yours,_

_Alistair_

And the most recent letter, dated just two months before their chance meeting:

_Joanna,_

_I wonder if any of my letters have reached you. I have not received a response from you in the ten years that I have been sending them, but I will continue to send them until we find you._

_I have offered Grand Enchanter Fiona and the rebel mages sanctuary in Ferelden, and many have gathered in Redcliffe. Teagan is not happy about it as you can imagine, but he has been accommodating. If you are with them, please reach out to Teagan and he can make sure that you are protected. Though I am unsure if you are in Ferelden; I have sent word to Weisshaupt to ask them about your duties, but I have not received word from them either. I take it that means that I am no longer considered a Warden, then?_

_If you are in Ferelden, I assume that you’ve heard the nickname that the people have for me. They call me The Lonely King because I have not married or been involved with anyone since you left. I don’t mind it. Mainly because it’s true._

_Things are uncertain and scary right now. I am for uneasy during these times than I was during The Blight, and I can only imagine how you are feeling. I simply need to know if you are alive. Please at least give me that much. I have never stopped thinking of, or loving, you, even after all these years._

_I know that you have your reasons for staying away, and I am sure that I can understand them if I knew what they were. I wish things had gone differently, and I have never forgiven myself for letting you go._

_This may be the last letter I am able to write for a while, depending on how things go at The Conclave, and if I need to mount a march against the Templars that keep showing up in Ferelden, but I will write again as soon as I can._

_Always,_

_Alistair_

Joanna sets the letter down, her eyes red and her cheeks raw from the tears that she could not hold back. She cannot imagine how different things would be now if she’d received these letters… if she had not run and hid from all of the agents that she knew were constantly at her heels. She had considered them the wolf to her hare, but perhaps it was never that severe: she was certain that they would have dragged her to Denerim in chains, but it was clear that they were just looking for evidence that she was alive at the very least.

“What is all this?”

Joanna’s head jerks up from the letter she still holds in her hand to see Alistair standing across the table from her, his eyes wide and wild as he sees the letters sprawled out across the table.

“My… letters? Where… did you have these all along?” he asks, his voice high and desperate.

“No,” Joanna chokes, “Eamon did. I never got them. I… I didn’t realize that things were so bad. If I’d gotten them, I would have…”

Alistair’s expression is difficult to read. He looks furious, but vulnerable, as if he is looking at his entire soul spread out across the table. He takes a deep breath and picks one of the letters up, his eyes scanning the page. An ironic smile crosses his face and he tosses the page down on the table. “You didn’t get any of them?”

“No, I’m sorry, I…”

“Would you have come back if you had?”

“I…” Joanna starts to say, but she catches herself before she can respond. If she says that she would have, would she be lying? If she had received that first letter from him, the one he wrote after his coronation, would she have packed up her campsite and run back to Denerim, or would she have read the letter and thrown it into the fire? She believed that she was doing the right thing then, and she cannot say now with any kind of certainty that things would have been different.

Alistair gives her a sad look, but shakes his head. “I suppose it doesn’t make a difference now. Are you going to keep them?”

“Do you want me to? They are… incredibly personal. If any of these got out…”

“Keep them,” he says assuredly, “they’re yours.”

She smiles at him, and then looks thoughtfully down at the mess of paper. “Did you hate me?”

“What?” he asks, flabbergasted.

“Ever? Did you ever hate me?”

He is surprised at her question, but his answer is quick and blunt, “No.”

She tilts her head at him, unbelieving.

“I tried to, believe me,” he says, picking up another letter absentmindedly, “There was a time I thought that if I could convince myself to hate you, then I could start to forget you, but I couldn’t do it. Did you ever hate me?”

“No. I understood, I thought. I didn’t want to forget, but I didn’t want to wallow either. I grieved what we had as if you had died, and I tried to keep busy with my duties. But running from you took much more effort than I ever thought it would.”

“And if I hadn’t seen you?”

“I would have kept running,” she replies honestly, expecting him to be upset, but he just gives her an understanding nod and sweeps her up in a bear hug. She presses into him, tucking her head underneath his chin and breathes in his scent, until a memory hits her and she jerks back suddenly. “Oh! I almost forgot.”

“What?”

She reaches into the pack she’s been carrying around with her since The Blight, and pulls out her copy of _The Rose of Orlais._ She sets it down on the table with a flourish, and grins up at Alistair.

He raises an eyebrow at her and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “A _book_?”

Joanna rolls her eyes and opens the book to its centre and delicately picks up the dried, pressed rose from between the pages and presents it to him. Alistair’s breath hitches as he picks up the rose and looks it over, dumbfounded.

“It’s the one you gave me,” Joanna says timidly.

“You kept it?”

“I told you: I never wanted to forget. I wanted to be forgotten, but this…” she takes the rose back from Alistair and tenderly places it back in the book, “this was never something I could part with. I swear it’s been my good luck charm all these years. Whenever I needed to remember that everything was okay, I’d just look at it and I’d feel better.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah. No matter what happened between us, this rose was always a reminder that there was always hope: a rare and wonderful thing amidst all the darkness.”

“A nice sentiment,” Alistair chuckles, taking her hand gently and pulling her into him.

Joanna gazes up at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying them in his hair, and, just before their lips meet, she says, “Perhaps I’m just feeling a little thorny.”


	9. The Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I wish I could do better by you,  
>  'cause that's what you deserve  
> You sacrifice so much of your life  
> In order for this to work._
> 
>  
> 
> \- From "Girl" by City and Colour

Through it all, Alistair has remembered. For too long he only had his memories to hold on to, and he had figured that, once Joanna was by his side again, the memories would fade and become forgotten.

But the Lonely King hasn't forgotten. He looks over at her, her face mired in deep concentration as she pores over the text in front of her, and a grin hits his face as a lock of her hair falls into her eyes and she blows it away with a huff of air. She hasn't changed much, he thinks: she is still as beautiful as she was the day he met her, though he knows that the years have not been kind to her. The dark circles under her eyes have become much more obvious than he can ever remember them, and there is still an aura of profound sadness about her that has replaced the energetic, soothing aura he'd always known. But she is still his Joanna.

Alistair hasn't read the letters Teagan gave Joanna, but he remembers writing them: the painstaking effort it took not to cry at the words, the frustration at having to rewrite them so many times, and the ire he felt when Eamon suggested using a scribe instead.

He swallows hard. The memories that he has held onto so tightly for the last ten years now swirl around his head like ghosts: the sound of Joanna's strangled gasp when a hurlock's arrow had pierced her skin; her screams at the night terrors and nightmares that had plagued them both; her face when he'd told her they couldn't be together if he was to be king; the look of sheer agony twisting her beautiful features as they... discussed Morrigan's ritual; the way he'd wanted to kiss her and beg her for forgiveness before she killed the Archdemon; her timid, closed-mouth smile at him from afar at his coronation; the distant, sad look she'd tried to hide from him at Vigil's Keep; and her wide-eyed glare as their eyes had met back in Redcliffe just a little over a week ago. Those eyes… the stunning emerald pools of bright vigor and intensity that even ten years hadn’t dulled.

Of course, the unpleasant memories are not all he can recall, though they are the ones that haunt him most, even with her a sitting only a few feet away from him.

Alistair remembers meeting her for the first time, trying to win her over with sarcasm, and being delighted when she returned it.

"A smart wit and a pretty face," Daveth had declared then. Maker, was he right.

He remembers the first time he told her that he loved her... and then their first time. _You're the first women I've ever slept with, and if I have my way, you'll be the last._ Maker, if he'd only known then. But Morrigan didn't _truly_ count... did she?

But, most of all, Alistair remembers her soul: as beautiful and rare as that rose he'd picked for her - the one she'd kept. Joanna's smile could always light up a room, or even, he recalled humourously, simply just assure him that she was still alive. The memory of pushing himself up from the root-covered ground of the Brecilian Forest after taking down a rabid werewolf and looking over to catch her eye is fresh in his mind now: oh, how scared he remembers he was, checking to see if Joanna was still alive, but being unable to find her amidst the mass of werewolf claws, fur, and teeth. And then, suddenly, a shockwave erupted from where the remaining wolves were attacking and they all fell dead instantly, and then Joanna struggled to her feet, soaked in blood with a large gash on her cheek. And she looked over at him and smiled.

“A mage of enormous power,” Duncan had said to him before he’d left to recruit her. Maker, was _he_ right.

He realizes that he hasn't seen that smile since she's been with him and, though she has smiled since she's been here, none of them have been _that_ smile. There have been many sad smiles, some awkward, many forced, and some fake, but none truly content or genuine. Except maybe when she showed him the rose.

Alistair glances over at Joanna again. She is chewing on the nail of her pointer finger lightly, scribbling fiercely as her eyes dart across the text. He knows she's onto something, and he doesn't want to interrupt her, but...

"Ahem, Jo?"

"Hmm?" she answers haphazardly, continuing to scribble and chew.

"Do you remember when Wynne tried to tell me where babies came from?"

"What about it?"

"Did she ever have a talk like that with you?”

The scribbling stops and Joanna stares down at the parchment. She is not smiling. "Something of the sort. She told me that we both had responsibilities that superseded our relationship, and that I should have ended things with you early to avoid hurt later on."

He swallows hard. It is not the answer he wanted when he brought the subject up. He wanted to make her smile, and not… not _this_ : not be reminded of their responsibilities.

She sighs, “But she changed her mind about us later on, she said. Something about love being able to shine through the darkness.” A pause, and then, “Did you ever hear what happened to her?”

Alistair nods glumly. “She died during her quest to help Shale.”

“And Shale?”

“I’ve never heard.”

Joanna looks up from her book and settles her chin on her hand, staring into Alistair’s eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“I… thought it might incite a fond memory of Wynne for you. I was trying to make you smile.”

She does, then, but it is the sad, timid smile that he has seen on her face more often than not. “I appreciate it, love.”

He gives her a warm look, continuing to look at her as her eyes return to the text in front of her and her hands resumes it’s frantic scratching across the parchment. Perhaps one day he’ll have all of Joanna back again. He vows to try harder when he returns from Redcliffe.

*****

Joanna stares at him, her anger flaring up. She can sense her mana pulsing in the air around them, and the look the King is giving her tells her that he can feel it, too.

He won't hesitate to drain her mana if she sends a spell at him, but she has no intention to… of course. Still, the magic crackles heavily and hungrily beneath her skin, and she feels the flames licking the backsides of her eyeballs.

Alistair does not shrink in front of her, but squares his shoulders and crosses his arms over his chest, immediately defensive. "You have something to say?"

Joanna takes a deep breath and tries to respond as calmly as possible, but her voice is clipped and hard, "You sent the rebel mages from Ferelden? Fiona, too?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Alistair pauses, sizing her up, and then asks, "Is that a trick question?"

She takes another deep breath. _Anger does nothing to foster understanding and compromise_ , she repeats twice in her head.

"Okay, I think that I can understand your reasoning, but you knew I needed to see Fiona."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Alistair..." the magic crackles almost audibly, and she already feels him begin to ready himself to suppress any energetic outburst.

"They have allied with the Inquisition now. They're the Herald's problem."

"Then I must go to Haven."

Alistair freezes, and her mana surges again, almost spilling over.

"You're leaving." It is not a question, but an acceptance of an inevitably, delivered with a dull, defeated voice that she has only heard him use once before.

"I have to speak with her. I have to end our Callings."

“I doubt she even remembers how she had the taint drawn from her. It’s a dead end, Joanna. And you can’t just waltz into Haven: Leliana would have a fit.”

Joanna ignores him. “Fiona must help us. She _has_ to. I must speak with her, Alistair, I…”

He laughs at her, but gives her a frustrated look, “And what makes you think she would ever agree to help _you_? To help us? I’ve just lectured the woman and sent her into the hands of an upstart organization that only sought the mages out because they need help closing the giant tear in the sky.”

Joanna stares back at him, deflating as her fists finally unclenching and her heart beginning to calm. “Alistair… she’s your mother.”


	10. King and Lionheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I, I will be king  
>  And you, you will be queen  
> Though nothing will drive them away  
> We can beat them, just for one day  
> Oh, we can be heroes, just for one day_
> 
>  
> 
> \- From “Heroes” by David Bowie

If King Alistair were to tell you that he is sleeping well, he would be lying. He had felt as though he was living in a waking nightmare until he found Joanna again, and he felt like he could finally sleep again, but he found himself waking in the middle of the night, fresh from the same nightmare. Though it was easier for him to calm down after feeling her warm body dozing peacefully next to him, Alistair wondered if he would ever be rid of the blasted nightmare.

The nightmare always begins the same: Alistair is lying beside Joanna in a field, their hands entwined. They are laughing and enjoying each other's company, and the world around them is hazy and peaceful. Joanna is dressed in a blue flowered dress, and her hair is long and wavy, framing her face in such a lovely way. They are ten years younger, and they are very much in love. Alistair is going to ask Joanna to marry him.

But then the ground breaks open and an ogre emerges from the fissure, grabbing Joanna and dragging her down into the deep with it. Alistair can hear her screaming and he is grasping for his blade and shield but they are not there. He lunges for her hand, but the ground swallows her up and closes and Alistair is left alone in the meadow, hearing Joanna scream for him, but unable to save her.

Then he wakes, a sweating mess of nerves and, recently, relief that she is still there. She is still alive.

He knows that Joanna has nightmares of her own; she's told him that the demons seem even more drawn to her recently, and she has had some odd experiences with spirits and demons in the Fade, but she does not elaborate, and he does not want to press her because he does not want her to run. She has returned to Denerim with him after a week of helping Teagan get back into Redcliffe Castle, though he knows that she is staying by his side somewhat reluctantly, but he is letting himself be selfish. The turmoil in the world seems bearable with her by his side.

The whispers begin almost the minute they arrive in Denerim among the servants and guards, and Alistair knows that they will soon spread outside of the palace, but he is past caring. The whispers among the nobility will start up soon enough, and he knows that it will soon become a point of contention at the Landsmeet, but their questions and objections will not shake the newfound confidence he has in himself. He is their king, and they will treat him as such.

“Why are you smiling?” Joanna asks from beside him. They are seated in the expansive dining room in the castle, surrounded by their nightly feast of stuffed partridge, potatoes and gravy, peas, and roast vegetables. She’d gobbled up the food as she usually did and washed it down with a hearty helping of wine, and they’d had a lively conversation about her studies into the Blight. She had been happy with the more extensive library in Denerim, and she’d gone back to raid the warehouse compound in the Market District, finding some useful tomes that she’d been incredibly excited about.

Alistair reached over and squeezed her hand, trying to give her a genuine smile, but he watched as her expression changed from confusion to knowing: she had seen through it.

“You’re afraid,” she whispered, dropping his gaze and hanging her head. “I told you that I’m not going to run again.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you afraid?”

“Because I can’t imagine losing you, not ever again, and the nightmares have been brutal.”

Joanna leaned towards him, taking both of his hands in hers and bringing them up to her lips and kissing them softly, closing her eyes. “I am not easily lost,” she asserts, but her voice wavers on the last word.

*******

As Alistair nears the shrine during his nightly courtyard stroll, he hears Joanna’s voice coming from behind the partially-closed door and is shocked into stillness: Joanna _praying_? At the foot of _Andraste_? Something is wrong. He moves towards the door silently, and listens in:

“Uh… not really sure how to start this. I’ve never really prayed before… well, not until I needed something. And I guess that’s what I’m doing now anyways,” Joanna chuckles, “I don’t really know who or what is looking over us, so whoever’s listening… I guess I’m praying to you. Unless you’re an Old God. Then forget it.”

Alistair smiles at her commentary.

“Anyways, I just wanted to ask for guidance. Some sign that I’ve got this. Some confirmation that I’m supposed to be here, or perhaps something to tell me I’m as lost as I feel.”

He freezes and his heart drops.

“I just…” Joanna’s breath hitches, “Alistair is a great king. He’s the king that Ferelden needs. And we have this plan that we’ve been trying to carry out. We knew it wouldn’t be easy, but sometimes it feels like we’re just running towards a dead end. All I have thought of for the past ten years is of him and being by his side and now… now that I am, I feel complete. I don’t want to leave, but I know I must. I must find a cure for the Calling.”

He listens to her openly sob now, and his heart aches to run towards her and sweep her into his arms, but he stays still.

“So… please send me a sign to let me know if I’m being selfish! Show me if I’m supposed to be here! Give me _something_!”

And then the commotion begins: shouting and feet rushing towards the courtyard. He feels naked without his sword at his side, and he readies himself to be confronted with whomever, or whatever, is causing all of the noise.

“King Alistair!” the familiar voice of his guard captain calls out into the courtyard, his voice high and frantic.

He jumps in surprise, but composes himself quickly and then walks briskly towards the man, hearing the door to the shrine behind him open and Joanna’s footsteps as she runs towards him.

“What is it?” Alistair asks the captain breathlessly. Joanna appears at his side, her eyes wide and wet.

“Y-your Majesty!” the captain is equally breathless as he skids to a stop in front of them.

“Spit it out, man! What is happening?” Alistair shouts at him, his stomach churning over and making him feel nauseous. His gut was telling him that something was very, very wrong, and he was readying himself for a sleepless night.

 _The city better be on fire_.

“We… we have received word that Haven was attacked. It has been buried in an… an avalanche.”

Joanna inhales sharply, and grabs his forearm, her eyes filled with terror. “Leliana,” she breathes, and Alistair’s heart sinks. He turns back to his captain and resists shaking him.

“What else can you tell us, Captain? Is there any word of survivors? What of Sister Leliana? The Herald of Andraste?” his voice is quick and strained, and he rushes through his words so fast that he is unsure that the captain has understood them.

“We received a raven not ten minutes ago informing us of the disaster. Haven was destroyed about a week ago, and the survivors have made their way to a stronghold in the Frostbacks called Skyhold. I believe the sender is Sister Leliana,” the captain replies, handing Alistair the missive with shaking hands.

Joanna rips it away from him and her eyes scan the paper quickly and hungrily. “This _is_ Leliana’s handwriting. It says that they have only just arrived at this stronghold. Trevelyan, Cullen, their ambassador, the Right Hand, and most of their people have survived. There’s… no mention of Fiona.”

She hands him the missive and he reads it himself, feeling relief wash through him that Leliana is alive, but Joanna’s growing worry is contagious.

He looks at her, and he knows what she’s going to say before she says it. He sighs and nods at her reluctantly.

“Go.”


	11. The Inquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This one's for the faithless  
>  The ones that are surprised  
> They're only where they are now  
> Regardless of their fight  
> This one's for believing  
> If only for it's sake  
> Come on friends get up now  
> Love is to be made_
> 
>  
> 
> \- From “Comes and Goes (In Waves)” by Greg Laswell

You have heard of Commander Cullen Rutherford before? Of course, when he knew our Joanna during her time in the Circle at Kinloch Hold, he was just a knight of the Templar Order who fancied our pretty, outspoken mage Hero. Though I have it on good authority that nothing ever happened between the two of them. And, of course, he knew the Champion of Kirkwall, our Joanna's cousin, Amelia Hawke. It seems both magic and beauty run in the Amell blood as Hawke, too, is a skilled mage. I wonder if the former Knight-Captain Cullen ever fancied her as well?

Anyways, Cullen Rutherford became the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces after the events at Kirkwall, and, as we have already established his affinity for mages, we should not be surprised that he fell in love with the Lady Inquisitor Jane Trevelyan from the Ostwick Circle of Magi. I do believe he later married Lady Trevelyan, but that is another story for another day.

The reason I am telling you of the dashing Commander Cullen is because of the enormity of his reaction as he walked into the war room at Skyhold one morning a couple of weeks after the Inquisition had made the stronghold it’s home. He'd been expecting the day to be like any other, but it most certainly was not: you see, he had been notified of the Champion's arrival at Skyhold, but was painfully unaware that Joanna Amell had also made her way to the Keep.

So, you can imagine his surprise as he walks into the war room and sees two ghosts from his past hunched over the war table, engaged in a very animated conversation with the Inquisitor. For a fleeting moment, the Commander's templar training kicks in as he enters the room, sensing the immense power between the three mages, and feeling slightly threatened... until he realizes that it is _Joanna Amell_ standing there in front of him.

We can assume that Cullen's infatuation with Joanna was similar to Teagan's: something intense, spurned on by her beauty and charm, but ultimately never to come to fruition. But Cullen remembers the mess he'd made of it: how embarrassed he'd been when she'd flirted with him, and how cruel he'd been when she'd returned to save him all those years ago.

Now, though, as his eyes dart to each woman, they land on his Inquisitor, and he is instantly put at ease. He clears his throat and stands at attention.

Jane turns to him and smiles, and then extends her arm towards him. "Warden-Commander, Hawke, you remember..."

"Cullen," both woman say in unison, inciting laughter between them as they do.

"Isn't it dangerous for two Amells to be in the same room? I believe that this is the very literal depiction of the term 'double-trouble'," he jokes, stepping forward.

Hawke rolls her eyes, but gives him a chuckle, "You're making _jokes_ , now? You certainly have changed!"

Joanna smirks and crosses her arms in front of her chest, nodding in smug agreement. "And in a room with three mages without his sword! Perish the thought."

"Sarcasm runs about as commonly as magic in the Amell blood, I see," he mutters.

Jane sighs and rolls her own eyes. "Do you need to fight this out or shall I call time out?"

"No," he answers sheepishly, "but I was wondering if I might speak with Joanna alone?"

Jane gives him a knowing look and nods at Hawke to follow her from the room. She squeezes his hand on their way out of the room and gives him a reassuring smile, and he sees Joanna's eyebrows shoot up in surprise out of the corner of his eye.

When Jane and Hawke are out of earshot, she murmurs approvingly, "So, not only are you surrounded by mages, but you're sleeping with one, too."

“Ah, Jane is… a great woman," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, "I just wanted to... uh, finally apologize to you. For what I said to you all those years ago. It was unworthy of me to be such a..."

"Templar?" Joanna interrupts.

"Not the word I was going to use," he says, "but that works, too.”

"You needn't apologize," Joanna reassures him, "but I appreciate it nonetheless. I'm pleased to see your... attitude towards mages has changed drastically. Jane is a lovely woman."

"She is at that," he agrees, blushing slightly.

Joanna gives him a sad look. "Treat her well, all right? In the end all you might have is each other."

"What do you mean?"

"That there will always be something that will seek to drive you apart. Do not ever let it. There are few things worth fighting for in this blasted world, and love is the worthiest of them all."

*********

Now, Cullen wasn't really one for gossip, but his interest is piqued the next day at the war table as Jane and Leliana discuss the arrival of the two Amells.

Jane is most intrigued by both of them, and knows she can learn much, though she has been trying to pass on some of her own rift speciality knowledge to both mages. Cullen remembers what he overheard First Enchanter Irving tell the Grey Warden Duncan about Joanna when he’d been eavesdropping so long ago:

_A mage of no small talent._

The other women are just as excited about the arrival of Joanna especially, though in different ways: Leliana is thrilled to have her old friend so close that she is positively gushing, and Josephine is obviously nervous about having the king's lover at Skyhold. Cullen actually heard her yell at one of the serving staff about preparing Joanna’s stateroom.

But that is what the conversation today consists of: Joanna's relationship with King Alistair. And it _is_ most intriguing.

"It is a romantic story, I suppose," Jane says to Leliana wistfully, "Reunited after all that time apart."

Leliana looks sad immediately. "Romantic, maybe. Tragic? Definitely. She hid for so many years to avoid breaking his heart, but she only forgot about her own. It is truly a shame that she cannot be queen. She would be such a wonderful ruler."

"But you think that she’ll work through the king anyways? Isn't that just as good as being queen?" Josephine interjects, "He has never married nor taken another lover in a decade and you said that he likely never intends to."

"Would you want to live as the dirty little secret of the king, Josie? You do not know Joanna the way I do: she is not meant to live as a secret," Leliana answers fiercely, "If she is to be the force behind the throne then she should also be sitting on it."

Jane wrinkles her nose. "Tell me again why we have the Chantry?"

Josephine gives her a horrified look. "Jane, we have talked about this..."

"Yes, yes. I'm to never say things like that outside this room, but tell me: why should mages not be able to rule? We have two perfect examples of women who would be fine rulers: they even petitioned for Hawke to be viscountess of Kirkwall! But it's the magic in their veins that disqualifies them?" She shakes her head viciously. "Ridiculous."

"You may be sensitive to it," Josephine murmurs carefully.

"Of course I am! What makes Joanna unqualified to rule the kingdom beside the man she loves? The only answer anyone will ever have is that she _could_ be an abomination… she _could_ be like the magisters of Tevinter, but of course neither of those could ever happen. Especially to Joanna. It’s _bullshit_!”

Leliana looks at Jane in horror. “Are you all right?”

“I… yes, I am. My apologies for my outburst.”

“No,” Leliana says, deep in thought, “You’re quite right.”

Jane gives her a grateful look and then blushes. “What were they like during The Blight?”

“You want to hear the mushy stories?” Leliana laughs.

“Yes,” Jane and Josephine answer in unison, both with honest looks on their faces. Cullen rolls his eyes.

Leliana laughs again, but she looks deep in thought as she crosses her arms and gazes out the window. “They were about as sweet as you can imagine, so sweet I think that Morrigan may actually have gotten a cavity or two. Alistair was… head over heels for Joanna very quickly, and I knew that she was in it for life when she fell in love with _all_ of him: even his flaws. Hah! _Especially_ his flaws. There was this one time we were fighting in the Deep Roads trying to find this dwarven Paragon and Joanna became so exhausted and spent that she was growing weaker with each spell she cast into this mess of spiders and emissaries, and she fainted and her barrier went down completely. This emissary sent a bolt of lightning towards her and it would have killed her for sure if Alistair had not leapt in front of the bolt. He took it right in the chest, but it was as if it had bounced off of him. He charged the emissary and cut its head clean off!”

Leliana chuckles at the memory, and her eyes seem to glaze over. “When Joanna finally came to, we were surrounded by spider corpses and darkspawn filth, and she never knew how close she came to death that day. Alistair never told her… I, ah, I wonder if he ever has.”

Jane’s eyes widen and she is obviously gobbling up Leliana’s story like a handful of sweets. “He put himself in front of _a lightning bolt_ for her?”

“Yes. He would have put himself in between anything for her, even if it meant a certain death for him. He told me that once; he said that she was so rare and so beautiful, like a rose, and that his life was only worth something as long as she was still in it. It was so heartwarming that they found each other in the midst of such evil and terrible times, and I truly believed that nothing could ever separate them. But…” Leliana trails off, still staring out the window, and then blinks back tears, “then they broke it off within minutes after he was decided king. In that moment, I was terrified. If their love couldn’t make it, then what hope did any of us have? And neither of them had anything to lose, and I was so afraid that it would turn them reckless and we’d lose both of them, but Joanna was so strong through it all. She must have been so broken, but she held her head high and told us that we’d all make it out to see the future without The Blight. She was always that way, though: the one person who could see the light in the darkness. She was so bright and sharp, but she was always a soft place to land.”

Cullen agreed silently: it was what had attracted him to Joanna so long ago, and it was part of what had drawn him to Jane. Both women were fierce and fiery, but they never wavered and they never let fear define them. They were both aware of the immense power running through their veins, but they never used it maliciously.

Leliana sighs and turns back to the war table, a sad smile on her face. “Regardless, they are together again now, but I fear that it will end very much the same way it did ten years ago. Ferelden will have a lonely, heirless king, and Joanna will disappear again. I thought of asking her to be an agent for the Inquisition, but her own mission is too important. Perhaps if she achieves her goal then things will be different.”

“You don’t have faith in them?” Josephine asks, her voice cracking and shaky.

“Joanna has conquered and mastered so many battles,” Leliana exhales, “but I fear that this may be one that she cannot win.”


	12. Fiona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _It’s better to burn out  
>  Than it is to rust  
> The [queen] is gone  
> But [s]he’s not forgotten_  
>  
> 
> \- modified from “My My, Hey Hey (Out Of The Blue)" by Neil Young

We move from Skyhold to Denerim now, where Alistair is impatiently pacing back and forth in his study, waiting for Eamon to arrive back at the castle. Eamon should be back from Redcliffe soon, and Alistair expects that Connor will be with him. Regardless, Alistair needs to speak with Eamon... urgently. Since Joanna revealed to him the truth about his mother, he’s been needing more answers to allow it to fully sink in, and it has been tearing him up inside ever since.

He… hadn't taken it well when Joanna had told him: he'd stared at her for a few minutes, his mouth agape, and then, before he knew what he was saying, he’d called her a liar in his state of disbelief. Of course, she’d then retaliated immediately. Their stubborn personalities, exacerbated by the bitter years they'd spent apart, had clashed violently in that moment, and after they’d screamed nonsense and gibberish at each for awhile, she'd eventually stormed through the castle into their bedroom and screamed into the pillow. 

But then they'd been able to speak calmly after sheepish apologies were made and apologetic embraces exchanged. And, then… she left. To go seek Fiona’s help. _Fiona_. His… _mother_.

The facts that his mother is alive, an elf, a mage, AND Orlesian to boot is not what he has had the hardest time grasping; it is the fact that the three men he trusted most - Duncan, Riordan, and Eamon - knew. He supposes that it makes sense as to why they would keep it from him in his youth, and he is unsure as to why Eamon hadn't mentioned it recently, especially after he knew Fiona was in Redcliffe, but Alistair intends to ask him. He wants to - no, he _needs_ to hear it. All of it. 

Before she left for Skyhold, Joanna had asked him if she should mention to Fiona that he now knows, and Alistair had thought about it for some time. He had wanted to say yes: that small part of him still pines for a normal family life, but he is also old and wise enough no (at least he thinks) to know that his parentage was hidden for a reason, so he'd told Joanna no. Come to think of it, he intends to ask Eamon about Goldanna as well: she likely isn't his sister, though that could turn out to be a good thing in regards to her continued petitions to the court about being financially supported.

In a sense, he wishes that he knew more of his father. All he knows of his family is the reputation of Maric, he met Cailan a few times, the stories Eamon told him of his ‘mother’, and a gold-digging ‘sister’ that hardly bears any resemblance to him. He wonders if any of the stories Eamon told him were true.

Alistair waits until he hears Eamon outside of his study, and then opens the door and leans against the doorway, his arms folded over his chest to wait for his uncle. As the footsteps near his study, Alistair readies himself to see his uncle, but it is Connor that appears from around the corner. The youth bows to Alistair and gives him a timid smile without meeting his eyes.

“King Alistair,” Connor mutters.

“Connor,” Alistair rasps, trying not to let the surprise of his cousin’s appearance permeate into his voice, but it is overwhelmingly evident.

Connor gives him a dull glance, and Alistair notices the dark circles under the young mage’s eyes. His cheek has a large scar where it looks as if he had a sword dragged across it, and he is thin and slouched. His voice is quiet as he whispers, “Y-your Majesty, it is good to see you again.”

“And you, Connor. Are you… well?”

“I will be, Your Majesty.”

“Please, Connor, call me Alistair.”

“I… all right, Alistair,” Connor responds carefully. He moves a step closer to Alistair and clasps his hands together nervously. “I have a question for you, if I may.”

“Of course.”

“My father told me that Warden-Commander Amell has been staying here in the castle. Might I speak with her?”

Alistair stiffens. “I am sorry to disappoint, Connor, but the Warden-Commander has left on an important mission. She will return as soon as she can, however.”

Connor’s disappointment is evident in the automatic frown that comes over his face, but he straightens up as he bows again to his king and murmurs, “Until next time, Your Majesty.”

Alistair is stunned at Connor, and simply stares after him as his cousin makes his way up the stairs to the family quarters, his mouth agape. He doesn’t even hear Eamon walk up beside him until his uncle says sadly, “He’s changed.”

“You don’t say,” Alistair replies, turning to Eamon. “Uncle, I must speak with you.”

“Can it wait? I’ve only just returned.”

Alistair wants to tell him that of course he should put his feet up and spend some time with his son, but his own selfish desires get the better of him, and he must speak with Eamon about this before it festers and breeds only more resentment.

“No, Eamon, it cannot. Joanna has left.”

Eamon’s face falls and he deflates. “Oh, Alistair, I am so sorry…”

Alistair squeezes his eyes shut and holds up a silencing hand. “Not like that. She seeks an end to our Callings. She has gone to see Grand Enchanter Fiona, but she will return to me.”

Eamon stiffens and waits for Alistair to finish.

“Before Joanna left,” Alistair continues slowly, “she told me something interesting about Fiona. And how I might have a _personal_ interest in what Fiona might have to say.”

All of the colour drains from Eamon’s face and he automatically walks into Alistair’s study and sits in the chair in front of the desk with a defeated thump.

“Why the lies?” Alistair asks menacingly.

Eamon snorts ironically, “Think of the repercussions, Alistair. The fact that Maric had a bastard son was scandal enough; can you imagine how badly the nobility would have revolted if they knew that your mother is an elf, a mage, and an _Orlesian_? Fiona knew the moment she gave birth to you that no one could ever find out.”

“So you _lied_ to me. All these years.”

“It was necessary. We all agreed to it. We knew that we had to keep up the deception for as long as possible,” Eamon says in a dull voice.

“ _All_?”

“Your parents, Duncan, Riordan, and myself.”

“Did Cailan know about me?”

Eamon does not answer.

"Did. Cailan. Know?" Alistair repeats through clenched teeth.

Eamon nods after taking a large sigh. "Cailan knew. He found your father's journals after he died."

Alistair’s eyebrows shoot up automatically. "Where are these journals now?"

"Destroyed. Everything within them was a threat to Cailan's rule and would have been a stain on Maric's legacy. And he was... angry, at first. Finding out that his father had another son with another woman, well, it was a stain on Rowan’s memory as well."

Alistair is silent.

“But you should know that he respected you very much, especially after you were recruited into the Grey Wardens. Duncan was fond of you and spoke well of you, and that was worth a great deal to Cailan.”

“It was why he sent me with Joanna to light the tower. Why Duncan kept me out of the fighting?"

Eamon nods slowly, not maintaining eye contact with Alistair. “As the darkspawn began to become more of a threat, I believe that Cailan saw you less as a threat and more as a contingency plan. You know how desperately he wanted to be a Grey Warden; if his successor could be a Grey Warden _and_ a king? He could rest easier knowing that Ferelden would be in good hands. He would have been proud of you, Alistair. You avenged him.”

“And now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would he have been proud of me now?”

Eamon pauses, searching Alistair’s face to gauge his demeanour, but Alistair is not giving him anything. Slowly, he answers, “Yes, I think he would have.”

Alistair rolls his eyes and chortles loudly, “Do you need more time to think about that?”

“No.”

“So you believe that Cailan would be proud of his illegitimate half-brother, former Grey Warden, heirless, in love with an apostate Grey Warden Commander, ‘Lonely’ King?”

Eamon gives Alistair an exasperated look. “No. Cailan would see that you are doing the very best you can with what you have.”

“That’s…” Alistair stops himself before he can say the rest: _a cheap answer._ But he doesn’t really believe it. It is an honest answer from his uncle, nothing more. He knows that he should be more concerned about how his own doubt has coloured his own perceptions about himself.

“ _I_ am proud of you, Alistair,” Eamon tells him earnestly, “You should be proud of yourself. You are not Cailan or Anora or Joanna: you are Alistair. You are king. And, if I may note, you are not ‘The Lonely King’ of Ferelden anymore.”

******

Before we continue with our story, I must clarify as to how Joanna found out about Grand Enchanter Fiona being Alistair’s mother, though it can be said that Joanna, nor anyone other than Fiona, does not truly know the whole story. How our Joanna found out is very simple: a few years after she was made Warden-Commander and gained access to several Grey Warden bases throughout Orlais, finding several of the late Riordan’s journals and log books. Initially, she had begun reading them out of pure curiosity, but then she’d come across the part that had changed everything: Duncan had known, Riordan had known, Eamon had known, and they’d all hidden it for so many years to protect Maric, Cailan, and, by extension, Alistair. Ferelden’s future secured with a lie. So she’d carefully copied each page of the journal and had been carrying the parchment with her all this time, perpetuating and carrying the lie with her. It was yet another determiner of Alistair’s fate that she carried with her.

Joanna is reminded of this as she ascends the stairs in the rotunda at Skyhold towards where Fiona usually spends her time in the library, giving the elven apostate Solas a kind nod. He has been exceedingly kind and accommodating towards her, even suggesting a few tomes for her to check into in regards to her quest into researching the Calling, and has been most forthcoming in answering her many questions in regards to elvhen lore and how it pertains to the Blight.

As she approaches the Grand Enchanter, Fiona smirks at her as if she was expecting her. "I heard a rumour about you, Warden-Commander Amell, if you will indulge me."

"Please call me Joanna. And which rumour would that be?"

"The one concerning your arrival here at Skyhold. They say that one minute you simply appeared in the rookery, and that no one actually _saw_ you arrive. I find that interesting, especially with one as widely recognizable as you."

Joanna smirks back at Fiona. "I didn't wish to make a scene."

"I have heard the other rumours of your shape-changing abilities as well. Might one have something to do with the other?"

"Ask me what you really want to ask."

Fiona chuckles, "The day you arrived, I witnessed a ginger cat, with fur unlike anything I'd ever seen before, navigate up the stairs towards the rookery. It had green eyes, very much like the colour of yours. I followed it up the stairs a bit and watched it hop up onto Leliana's table and sit primly as if it were awaiting her presence, and it looked down and moved aside one of the papers and peered down upon it as if it were reading it. Am I right in assuming that cat was you?"

"Very perceptive," Joanna says, smiling at the Grand Enchanter, "you saw through me."

"Where did you learn such an ability?"

Joanna sighs, "During the Blight. An... old friend taught me. It's been useful in maintaining a discreet existence."

She frowns, remembering her panic when she was being pursued by two of Teagan's agents close to Honnleath about two years after Alistair had been crowned. They were quite aggressive and it had been one of the rare times that she'd actually felt _hunted_ by the Guerrin's agents, so she'd spent most of her time in wolf-form to hide from them. She'd almost been caught. That entire ordeal had been so exhausting; she was almost certain afterwards that she'd never be able to generate mana again.

Fiona's next line of questioning brings her back to reality, "I... was told that you journeyed all the way here from Denerim. You are... friendly with King Alistair?"

“We are close,” Joanna says carefully, her eyes searching the other woman’s face. “He was kind enough to host me at the castle during my time in Denerim.”

“H-he… is he…” the Grand Enchanter stammers before stopping abruptly. Joanna takes her hand almost automatically and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

Fiona stares up at her through bleary eyes, a single tear tracing its way down her cheek. She clasps both hands over Joanna's and asks at an almost-whimper, "Please just tell me one thing: is he... happy?"

Joanna hesitates, not knowing what to tell the woman. She looks so fragile. "Alistair is happy _now_ ," she answers carefully, "but for many years he was lost. I believe he has found himself again."

Fiona squeezes her hand before letting it go. "So it is true? You are the source of his happiness? You are, indeed, the Joanna they whisper about in the taverns and villages? The mage who holds the king's heart?"

Joanna stiffens. "I... suppose so. But, please, Grand Enchanter, I need your help. Alistair needs your help. Your _son_ needs your help.”

“Does he know about me?” Fiona whispers, her eyes huge. She bites down on her lip so hard it turns white.

Joanna inhales sharply, but she knows that Fiona can see the answer written all over her face. When she meets eyes with Fiona again, the Grand Enchanter seems to have gone somewhat lethargic, slumping against the wall and running her hand down her face slowly. Fiona inhales sharply, and then seems to mouth something to herself. When she finally meets Joanna’s eyes again, she is wholly determined and focused.

“I will do anything to save my son,” Fiona asserts, narrowing her eyes, “Anything.”

*****

_Alistair,_

_Please know that I am all right. I am still at Skyhold, but anticipate that I will be leaving soon._

_I have met with Fiona, and she has been a great help with my research. I am afraid that she does not know exactly how the taint was drawn from her blood in the first place, but she has done her own research since… well, since you were born, and she has some very sound theories. Luckily, many of them involve the Grey Wardens and magic, so I feel that I may be in my element here._

_Fiona has suggested that I make my way to Kinloch to search for anything that First Enchanter Irving may have put together in regards to this as she believes that he was also researching this well before I was even recruited into the Wardens. She cannot guarantee that anything will come of it as she has not heard anything of Irving since the rebellion, but I fear that I have exhausted all of my research and resources here._

_I will be making my way towards Lake Calenhad within the next couple of days. I promise to keep you updated as to my whereabouts to the best of my ability, but please know that I may not always be able to send letters._

_If I may offer you some advice: trust the Inquisition and the Inquisitor to take care of the rifts. Call upon them to worry about it: you have enough to worry about as king. Leliana also wants you to know that you simply need to send a bird, and she is at your disposal._

_I can promise you that I will save us yet, my love. Please take care of yourself._

_I love you, always._

_\- J._


	13. Death and All His Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Oh, Lazarus, how did your debts get paid?_
> 
> \- From “Blood on My Name” by The Brothers Bright

Joanna knows the spy is Leliana’s even before he spots her and makes his way over to her table, weaving through the patrons filling The Spoiled Princess pub as if he was a shadow. None of the other people in the pub seem to notice him.

“What is it this time?” Joanna mutters, grabbing the missive from his hand before he can even hand it to her. She is relieved for some word from _someone_ ; she has begun to go a bit stir crazy waiting for the owner of the Spoiled Princess to find a boat that she can use to get to Kinloch Hold.

The man gives her a slight smile and then places a large sack on the table in front of her.

She winks at him. “I was just about to ask why she couldn’t have just sent a bird, but looks like you’ve answered my question for me.”

“The letter is from Sister Leliana,” the messenger murmurs beneath his hood, “the supplies are from Commander Cullen and Inquisitor Trevelyan.”

“Oh, that’s… very nice. Please send them my regards,” Joanna requests, as the unmistakable scent of blood lotus and prophet’s laurel waft from the sack.

“Of course, Warden-Commander.”

Joanna waits for the messenger to leave before tearing into the letter. Leliana’s flowing, elegant script fills the page:

_Joanna,_

_I will assume that you have heard about the Wardens of Orlais. I expected to see you amongst them at Adamant Fortress, but you were not there… that was likely for the best. If you have not heard, well, I regret to inform you that Warden Stroud has been lost in the Fade, giving his life so that Jane and Amelia could escape and return to us. Warden-Commander Clarel also perished in the fighting._

_The Wardens have allied with the Inquisition and have been most helpful, though they are leaderless. I would have suggested that our resident Warden, a man named Blackwall, step in in the meantime, but that is another story entirely._

_Your cousin has left to report to Weisshaupt and asked me to tell you that she is fine. Varric suspects that Anders will likely follow her there. If you have any plans to venture to Weisshaupt, please inform me immediately; I am sure that you have heard the rumours of turmoil within the Anderfels._

_I know that I have told you about Corypheus, but Joanna, he is much more dangerous than we had feared. He had controlled the Warden mages’ minds and corrupted them so severely that they fought us to the death at Adamant. Please, please be careful. His Venatori are cunning and incredibly dangerous, and we have encountered them, and red templars, in Ferelden. Please just let me know that you are alive. The missives from Denerim have not mentioned you, and I am worried about you. I should let you know that Alistair is fine, despite the Venatori infiltrating the castle some time ago, and that we successfully hosted peace talks between Celene and your king, though he is certainly no diplomat, and Josephine found herself wishing that you were present during most of the talks._

_We are becoming a little desperate, though we have bested Corypheus several times now. We do not know what he is doing, though Morrigan is here and claims that he is searching for an eluvian. Have you heard of these? What do you know of methods to enter the Fade physically? Is there anything that you can tell us that may give us some insight? I do not know if Morrigan is correct, and I do not want to take my chances with her, but Jane seems to trust her._

_Also, I should tell you that Morrigan’s son is here with her. He is not what I expected: he seems so normal. Also, the resemblance to Morrigan is uncanny, and you would never know that he is also Alistair’s. I don’t know why I wrote that. I am sorry._

_Please stay safe and if you can send anything along to us, please do. If you could reply directly to the Inquisitor, that would be much appreciated. And do not mention how desperate I have sounded in this letter to Jane: I can tell that this is weighing on her greatly and I do not need to add to it unnecessarily._

_All my love,_

_L._

Joanna sighs and tucks the letter into her pocket; she’ll write a letter to the Inquisitor later on. Yet more Wardens dead. And now, with both Clarel and Stroud dead, the Wardens of Orlais were left with no one to lead them, though she supposed that the Inquisitor or Cullen would be leading them due to their most fortunate alliance. Regardless, a new Warden-Commander would need to be appointed as soon as possible, and she is unwilling to take over, especially as her own quest takes precedence. She will need to send yet another letter to Weisshaupt, though she has not received a response in almost a year. Amelia will just have to take care of things for now… and Anders, too, she supposes, though his presence at Weisshaupt will likely cause more trouble than anything. Her head begins to pound.

She remembers Clarel. Fleetingly, of course. They’d only had a few run-ins over the past decade, and exchanged missives as their duties permitted, but Clarel was fiercely territorial, and Joanna hadn’t interfered with the Orlesian Wardens much, though she’d assisted in some missions while she was in Orlais several years ago. She’d been mainly preoccupied with her studies on the Blight and avoiding Alistair’s spies that she hadn’t focused on recruiting any new Wardens within Ferelden; there simply wasn’t the need to. She’d come across a few Wardens wandering through Ferelden, and they’d all known who she was and respected chain of command, but Clarel had kind of taken over as _the_ Warden-Commander, and she’d been so inattentive that she’d let it slide. She’d meant to meet Warden Blackwall back at Skyhold, but they had never had a chance to meet each other, though he would answer to Clarel, just like everyone else. She wondered what Leliana’s comment about him had meant.

Losing Stroud was a bit of a harder pill to swallow, though she is relieved to hear that Amelia had survived. Stroud was a man of incredible integrity, and she’d heard that he was an exceptional leader. The loss was palpable, and she mourns him as a fellow Warden and as a great man, and she fears for what his loss means for the Wardens of Orlais.

Joanna is not delusional; she knows that Death and all of His friends follow the Wardens, and, by extension, her and Alistair, around constantly. Not just in fighting darkspawn or general evil, but snaking through their veins each second of every day, hanging over their heads like a black cloud that never dissipates. But if she can find the cure for The Calling, then perhaps she can finally win the stare-down with Death… this time anyways. She may win the battle, but she will never win the war.

***

“I’ve a question for ya, Warden-Commander, if ya would indulge me,” the owner of The Spoiled Princess asks her the next morning as she is gobbling up the delicious breakfast he has made for her for the last week that she’s been staying there.

“Does it involve you managing to find me a boat?”

He smirks at her. “Ya know that ya could always go find one yerself.”

Joanna rolls her eyes. He is the same man who has owned the Inn since forever, and he almost didn’t want to give her a room after remembering the trouble that followed her to his doorstep during the Blight. He has warmed up to her considerably since.

“Ask away,” she mutters through bites.

“What’s it like being a Warden?”

“Why? You looking for a new job?”

He chuckles, “Naw, but youse guys are heroes. _You’re_ a hero. What’s that like?”

“Being a Warden doesn’t automatically make you a hero; it just means that you’re willing to give yourself to something honorable and bigger than yourself. It means that you’re willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good,” Joanna almost chokes on the last sentence.

“The ultimate sacrifice?”

She gulps, “The good of the many outweigh the good of the few, or the good of the one.”

“Lucky we didn’t lose you, then, Warden-Commander. Don’t know where we’d be without you. Or the king. Lucky neither of youse died in Denerim.”

Joanna gives him a tense smile. “Very lucky.”

“You know, the people that come through here, they say a lot of things. Lotta things about the king. And you,” he doesn’t meet her eyes, but she can see the slight up-turn of the corners of his mouth and the twinkle in his eye underneath his lashes.

“I’m not interested in gossip.”

“Gossip is often rooted in fact, Mistress Amell. I’d think for one who has so much gossip swirling around her, you’d know that.”

She sighs and rolls her eyes even more dramatically, “What is it with people beating around the bush when they’re talking to me?”

“Well, Warden-Commander, they call him The Lonely King, and they say that you’re the reason why. There were rumours that youse were dead, and then that youse were alive, and _then_ that youse were dead again, and then someone came in and announced to the whole tavern that youse was engaged to an Orlesian comte. And _then_ youse came in here a week ago, tellin’ me that you’re on a mission to save the Wardens without a mention a where ya been for the last ten years, or anything ‘bout the king. So, I want to know _exactly_ what it is ‘bout bein’ a Warden that makes you all so damn fascinating.”

Joanna narrows her eyes at him, clenching her jaw. “When you join the Wardens, you obtain something that gives you a certain edge over any other soldier, especially when fighting darkspawn. It’s the reason why Wardens are needed when a Blight comes. It’s also the reason why we don’t recruit unless we need to: it’s like signing your own death warrant.”

“That’s a nice speech where you didn’t say nuthin’ at all.”

“And _that’s_ another part of being a Warden: enduring secrecy,” she says sarcastically, “Still wanna sign up? I’ll just need you to sign away the rest of your life.”

He clears her plate and gives her a look. “I’ll have youse a boat by tomorrow morning, _Warden_.”

She gives him an ironic smile and begins to walk towards the back of the tavern towards where her room is.

His voice stops her, “So I guess the next time I hear gossip ‘bout youse, I’ll just tell ‘em I heard that youse is engaged to that Orlesian comte.”

Joanna doesn’t turn around, but the dark smile is on her face before she knows it. “Tell them it’s a comtesse. That’ll give you enough gossip for the next ten years.”

Denying our Joanna the last word, of course, the owner of The Spoiled Princess quips, “Ah, so the Lonely King is fated to stay lonely, then?”

She doesn’t respond, but turns on her heel and tries to avoid storming up to her room, the word _yes_ hammering against her lips like vomit.


	14. Darkspawn Chronicles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I did not know you, you were a demon to me  
>  Your presence, it was a fear that lived inside me  
> It grew around me, then you would appear_
> 
> _Deep below the earth I might have found you  
>  High above the tower I could not see_
> 
> \- From “Out of the Darkness” by Matthew and the Atlas

The scream catches in her throat as she sits up in the bed in her room at The Spoiled Princess, and she realizes that she is sweating profusely. Like most of her nightmares, it is filled with the growls and screams of the darkspawn, their grotesque faces contorted horribly in a silent shriek the minute that she closes her eyes.

She can never escape them; their screams have been haunting her consistently since the Joining ceremony.  

At least now it isn't the nightmares she had during the Blight, but the memories of it all are almost as terrifying as hearing the Archdemon in her mind. Even still, the nightmares are so vivid, and she often feels like she has been transported back ten years. 

The most frequent nightmares are of her time in the Deep Roads when she was searching for Branka. Finding the Broodmother was bad enough, but strangely her nightmares are not of the terrible monster the Broodmother was, but of the _ogres_. How she detested the ogres! There had been so many damn ogres in the Deep Roads, and they only seemed to get stronger the farther in they journeyed. The sight of them completely resisting her freezing spells and barrelling towards her with full force are the most haunting memories.

Now, our Joanna is no coward; she is as brave as she is beautiful, and her skill as a mage is unparalleled, but if a fear demon were to manifest in front of her, it would take the shape of an ogre. Spiders would be a close second. The scariest part of the ogres is that she is unsure of how they ever came to be: darkspawn are said to be the distorted, monstrous reflection of men, shrieks very slightly resemble elves, and she supposes that the broodmothers are what becomes of the dwarves they take, but the ogres?

Joanna shudders as she sees the monsters in her mind: the immense size of them, their spiked teeth that could tear a man in half, their sheer strength, their horns... she swallows heavily, her throat tightening. Another face flashes in her mind, then: Sten. Though he did not have horns, she knows that the qunari are known for being _horned giants_ , and... no, she doesn't want to think of this. 

I wish that I had more to tell you of what happened to our Joanna's dear qunari companion Sten, besides from the fact that he became Arishok after the unfortunate incident in Kirkwall where Amelia Hawke slew his predecessor. Truthfully, I cannot be completely sure that the new Arishok was Joanna's Sten, but the word out of Par Vollen was that the new Arishok was hornless, and once referred to the Hero of Ferelden as 'kadan', a term of affection under the qun. It may also explain the Arishok's total refusal to mount any sort of expedition to Ferelden and also the rumours out of Seheron that King Alistair received a short letter each month delivered in-person by a Ben-Hassrath spy bearing the seal of Qunandar.

It can be assumed, then, that Joanna has also received short letters, though likely on the leg of a very large, efficient, and precise raven and not a Ben-Hassrath spy. 

Joanna remembers the way Sten fought the darkspawn with such ferocity and precision, especially after Asala was returned to him. When she'd handed him the sword after they'd found it in Redcliffe, she still believes that she was the only human who had ever almost seen a qunari cry. His gratitude had been unexpected, and his already-growing respect had been inspiring. He had called her a warrior, but he had still placed himself in front of her to protect her from any incoming blows that her barrier wasn't strong enough for. It had made Alistair breathe easier when Sten was with them, because it meant that Joanna always had two people looking out for her. 

And she remembers just how terrifying it was to be on her own after the Blight. Though she'd had Oghren and Anders and even Nathaniel looking out for her during their struggle in Amaranthine, it just hadn't been the same. When she'd fled to Orlais, she'd asked some of the Warden warriors she'd stumbled across to train her with a sword, and though she gained a bit more confidence if it came to that, she had still found herself warier and more alert when she was travelling alone. There were still darkspawn everywhere then, and she didn't have a warrior around to protect her anymore. She'd only had herself to rely on. 

Thankfully, this isn't the case anymore: she's been on her own long enough to develop her magic and confidence even further, and now she knew that she could snap her fingers and kill a man, or hurlock, instantly. She’s learned the hard way that fear does not serve her, and she’s made a massive effort to not let it compromise who she is, but it is only when she wakes up alone, just like tonight, after a nightmare about an ogre crushing her with an effortless clench of its fist, that she feels truly frightened. At least she hasn't set the sheets on fire. 

The morning light filters through the small cracks in the shutters, and Joanna abandons the idea of returning to sleep. The nightmares, she knows, will never end: they will remain like the scars she will always bear on her body, but the all-encompassing nightmare of the taint and The Calling _will_ end - it has to. 

 _For the Grey Wardens_! 

She smiles: Alistair shouted that each time he charged into battle, cutting down enemies and declaring the battle won for the one thing in his life that had ever made sense to him and had ever accepted him, just as he was. And, in turn, he had done the same for her. 

"This nightmare will end," she says to herself as she pulls on her white and blue armour and griffin chest-plate, "For the Grey Wardens!"

Joanna catches a glimpse of herself on the mirror hanging on the back of the door, and is surprised at how healthy and fit she looks in the Warden armour. She gives herself a small, shaky smile, and she whispers again, “For the Grey Wardens.”

“Mistress Amell?” the owner of the Inn’s voice comes through the door after a loud knock, “I have what you’ve been waiting for: I’ve found a boat.”

 ****

The owner of The Spoiled Princess looks down at the tiny dinghy and hands her an oar with a flourish.

“Wish it were something a little fancier for a woman of your… _stature_ ,” he snorts, “You do know how to row this thing, dontcha?”

She grabs the oar from his hand and narrows her eyes at him. “I’m a _Warden_. I can row a bloody boat.”

He watches her with an amused smirk, his arms crossed in front of him ironically, as she pushes the dinghy off of the shore and climbs in, dipping the oar into the water and sending a bolt of lightning into the wood, causing the water behind the dinghy to bubble and look as if she was producing wake. She hears a derisive snort from behind her, and peers over her shoulder to see the owner turn on his heel and walk back towards the Inn.

Joanna smiles and then looks up towards the tower and the smile disappears quickly from her face. The tower casts an almost-opaque shadow over the lake, and it seems as if it has become even more foreboding since the last time she was here. She can’t believe that she lived here for the entire first part of her life.

“Who says you can’t go home?” she chuckles to herself, laughing simply to help her feel better and more confident, but she is immediately struck by the thought that Kinloch was never a home to her.

_I guess my home is with the Grey Wardens now. With you._

The memory of her conversation with Alistair sticks like a bad aftertaste… except, now that she thinks about it, it _isn’t_ a bad memory. It is the first time that she ever felt like she belonged… _anywhere._

Joanna takes a deep breath as she nears the tower, an innate feeling of dread coursing through her veins. She cannot guarantee what she will find within; she cannot even guarantee that she will find what she needs, but she will walk into the deepest, darkest areas of the Fade to find this cure.

And, though Kinloch Hold is not the deepest, darkest areas of the Fade, it’s pretty fucking close.


	15. Old, Unhappy, Far Off Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I thought I saw the devil  
>  This morning  
> Looking in the mirror, drop of rum on my tongue  
> With the warning  
> To help me see myself clearer  
> I never meant to start a fire  
> I never meant to make you bleed_
> 
> _I’ll be a better man today._
> 
> \- from “I’ll Be Good” by Jaymes Young

King Alistair is no diplomat. After the Blight, he studied diplomacy and etiquette and political sciences, but patience cannot be taught, nor forced, on the unwilling. King Alistair is not a patient man, and the last ten years as king have only worn on the king's already thin tolerance for the nobility.

Joanna had scoffed at him when he'd told her of his grievances, "Alistair, there are elves in your Alienage who do not complain when they go a full day without eating, and you're complaining about dealing with the nobility once every while?"

He wrinkles his nose; he hates when she reminds him of his privileged nonsense, but she’s right. Maker, of course she’s right – she’s _Joanna Amell_. He must remember to tell Eamon to set aside rations to deliver to the Alienage this month.

The Landsmeet chamber is different today, he thinks, and he cannot exactly figure out why. The agenda has been set, the discussions are running smoothly, and there has only been one mention of "poncy Orlesians", "the meddling Inquisition", and (his all-time favourite) "stinky cheeses in the taverns of Redcliffe" each. Perhaps that's what's wrong: everything seems to be going right. For once. 

He rubs the space between his eyes and squeezes his eyelids shut, an exaggerated grimace on his face. 

"What's next on the agenda?" he mutters, leaning back in the throne lazily. He _hates_ this shit.

"Your Majesty," Bann Alfstanna speaks up, "there are rumours that the Hero of Ferelden has been seen at your side in recent months, and, thus, that you have rekindled your relationship with her. Is this true?"

The entire Landsmeet chamber becomes totally silent and the air grows rigid, but Alistair cannot suppress the smile that readily forms on his lips. Alfstanna has never been one to mince words. He'd been wondering when the rumours would reach her ears.

He looks beside him at Eamon, expecting his uncle to be stiff and uptight because of the question and the blunt nature in which it was asked, but Eamon returns his gaze kindly and gives him a relaxed, reassuring nod. The king straightens up in the throne.

"And if the rumours are true?" Alistair replies slyly.

He readies himself, expecting the entire chamber to erupt, but it remains eerily silent, and he surmises that the nobility are all looking at Alfstanna to be their voice.

She is smirking, but she says with much trepidation, "Then... may I ask where she is? We... _ahem_ , the majority of us... have wondered if she might join us. Is she to become your... _advisor_?"

Alistair senses the subliminal message within Alfstanna's queries immediately:  _when can the Hero of Ferelden help you be a better king? When can she come back and tell us all what to do? When can she save the country again?_

He stares over at Eamon, his eyebrows arched sharply, unsurprised to see that Eamon's face mirrors his own. He sits forward in the throne, showing more interest in what is happening within the chamber than he has in years.

"You would all accept Joanna if she were my...  _advisor_?" he asked. "Even though she is a mage? Technically an apostate?"

Alfstanna answers for the majority again, but Alistair can see displeasure across some faces. "She is the Hero of Ferelden and a Warden-Commander. We each owe our lives to her and the sensibility and compassion she showed during the Blight... Thedas itself would no longer exist were it not for her decisions and actions. And times are changing, Your Grace. The Inquisition has appointed the Lady Trevelyan - a Circle mage - as its leader. We must make sure that we are able to change with the tides if we are to continue to have peace."

Alistair is utterly, completely, totally _stunned_. He does not know what to say or feel, and a mixture of excitement, confusion, and intense frustration run through him. Has he truly been doing _that_ poorly as king that the _entire_ Landsmeet would welcome a mage's guidance over his? But, he reminds himself, Joanna is not _simply_ a mage. 

His answer comes partly as Arl Wulff pipes up, "She's the diplomat we need, King Alistair. Sometimes certain matters require a gentler touch. Orlais is stewing beside us; if we had the guidance of both yourself and your qu-"

A collective gasp rings through the crowd as Wulff bites back his tongue, but the word that was almost spoken still hangs in the air;  _queen_. With it comes a sense of understanding, though; they have all been participating in this conversation knowing that they have been using the word 'advisor' in lieu of 'queen'. Alistair pinches himself, but not for the usual reason of keeping himself awake: he is uncertain that this is actually happening.

But his anger replies for him, "And what of me? Have I been doing so poorly as your king these many years that you would rather see me as a puppet for one who cannot be queen?"

"We are not implying that at all, Your Majesty," Alfstanna answers soothingly, "it's just that, since we now know that Warden-Commander Amell has been with you, you have made decisions that have benefitted Ferelden. You sent the rebel mages from Redcliffe, you've made a fortunate ally in the Inquisition, and the trade deal that you presented at the last meeting was fair, smart, and has already greatly benefited the farmers in the bannorn. Please pardon me for being so bold, Your Grace, but you have shown us that you can be the king we need, and it seems that the Hero of Ferelden has had much to do with it. We must think of what is best for Ferelden, and if that means having her by your side, then it is what must be done."

Eamon coughs, muttering under his breath that Alistair had presented the deal on Joanna's urging, and Alistair shoots him a look.

"All right," Alistair says slowly, allowing it to sink in, "but there will be no illusions about my relationship with Joanna. I will never hide her, or my feelings for her, and if we are to have a child, then he or she is automatically acknowledged as the rightful heir to the throne _without_ contest."

Grand Cleric Maudine, who has been silently nodding throughout the exchange with a pair of seriously pursed lips, speaks up, "You still cannot actually _marry_ the Warden-Commander, Your Majesty. The Chantry would never allow it. You've found a loophole for now, but she can not be given a title other than Advisor or Court Enchanter."

Alistair shrugs. "Semantics."

"Then, I ask for a vote of accord," Alfstanna says, "Those in favour of the proposed changes to King Alistair's… ah, advisory board, say aye."

The chamber is filled with a mixture of agreement: some are enthusiastic, including a minor lord who lost his son to the Circle, others are timid, and some are stoic.

"And those opposed?"

A silence fills the hall again until a few unconfident 'nays' echo through it, but Alistair is thinking it before Alfstanna even says it:

"The ayes have it: the motion carries," Alfstanna declares, a smirk on her face. She turns to face Alistair and clasps her hands together. "Now, Your Majesty, where is the Warden-Commander?"

Alistair's face falls. 

****

Alistair braces himself against the desk in his study, his mind racing from the events at the Landsmeet. His hearts races in time with his mind, and he finds that he is too energized to sit down.

Similarly, Eamon stands in the corner of his study, leaning against one of the bookshelves, a bewildered look on his face. 

They both jump as Teagan enters, a triumphant smile on his face. "Well, that was certainly unexpected. Who would have thought the nobility would be so open-minded?"

"Perhaps they're just as sick as hearing me be referred to as 'The Lonely King' as I am."

Eamon frowns, but does not join in the conversation.

"They seemed to understand when you explained to them about Joanna's quest," Teagan continues, "I'm still pinching myself to remind myself that this is all real."

Alistair shrugs. "She's the Hero of Ferelden. She could burn the Alienage to the ground and they'd probably give her a commendation."

Eamon shifts uncomfortably as Teagan laughs, "I wouldn't go that far! There was talk, however, of what has happened at Caer Bronach with the Inquisition. Are you able to look into that, Alistair, or would you like me to handle it?"

"Lets leave it for now," Alistair says, "We can send a letter to Leliana to ask for an explanation, but it may be a good idea to have a presence - even the Inquisition's - in the area for now. The King's Road needs protection, especially near Crestwood, and if we can spare our men and risk the Inquisition's..."

"Of course, Your Majesty. I will inform the bannorn of your decision," Teagan says. He gives Alistair a wary look. "Are you planning to tell Joanna of what transpired here today?"

Alistair's exhale is strained, and hisses through his teeth as the colour begins to drain from his face. "I... I don't know where she is. Her latest letter mentioned that she would likely not be able to send many updates should she reach Kinloch Hold. I don't want to... go after her again. I want to trust her."

"And if she doesn't return?" Eamon finally speaks, stepping towards them.

Teagan gives Eamon what is meant to be a silencing look, but Eamon ignores it. 

"She said she would return to me. She made a promise."

"Alistair." Eamon's voice is firm and monotonous. "She will do her duty. You know this. She seeks to end The Calling for the Wardens. Not for you, not for her, but for the Wardens as a whole. The Wardens are not here in Denerim. There is nothing for her here."

Alistair's heart begins to pound so ferociously he can hear it thud in his ears. "She made a _promise_."

"She may have, but promises change all the time. Have you forgotten that she has also made a promise to the Wardens? Your duties supersede any plans that you may have made to each other: she will always choose her duty, and you should be more concerned with yours," Eamon is lecturing now, and Alistair is getting sick of being treated like a child.

"No," Alistair asserts, shaking his head, and slowing his breathing to stay calm, "Joanna is not one to make a promise if she is not confident that she can keep it. She will return to me. And if she has to report to Weisshaupt or Skyhold, then she goes. But she will always come back."

"And when she realizes that you have integrated her into your court without asking her first?" Eamon counters. 

"Then she'll yell and we'll fight and scream at each other until we work it out."

"You really think that it's that simple? Alistair, had the last decade taught you nothing? Nothing is ever that simple!"

"I have faith that she was brought back to me for a reason, and that everything that happened today happened because she is meant to be here with me. Her destiny is as Ferelden's hero - its protector."

" _You_  are Ferelden's protector."

"I am Ferelden's king. I am so much stronger with her at my side, Uncle, you know this! _Ferelden_ is so much stronger with her at my side. And, Maker's Breath! I'm  _king_. This is  _my_  country.  _My word_  is law. Perhaps it's time I started acting like it."

Eamon stiffens and nods reluctantly. "Of course, my king."

Alistair gives him a smile, but he does not miss the shadow of doubt creeping into his uncle's face. He finds himself wishing that Eamon had the same level of faith in him as he has in Joanna. He walks towards the small window and stares out at the courtyard, resting his head against the cool stone and trying to brace himself against the weight of the last ten years crashing down upon him.

“I’m the king,” he growls through clenched teeth, “ _I’m_ the king.”


	16. On The Shores of Lake Calenhad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Little bird  
>  Hoppin' on my porch  
> I know it sounds kinda sad  
> But what's it all for?  
> Right now you're the only friend I have in the world  
> And I just can't take out very much  
> Goddamn  
> I miss that girl_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- From “Little Bird” by The Eels

Joanna steps inside Kinloch Hold and takes a deep, all-engulfing breath. The Hold is dark and dank and musty, but somehow it is unchanged. Blood is splattered on the wall above a skeleton dressed in a mage's robe, and another skeleton lies across its lap in templar regalia, a knife sticking from its chest. She wonders if she knew the pair.

She lights one of the torches still lining the halls and then snaps her fingers and the rest of the torches flare up, illuminating the hallway of the apprentice's quarters and revealing yet more skeletal remains that look as if they were just left where they fell. Joanna swallows hard as she steps over the bones: a mage wearing a senior enchanter's robe with an arrow through the skull and back, a beheaded templar, a burn mark on the stone with the perfect outline of a body within it, and discarded books, clothing, swords, and staffs strewn about through the hallway and inside the dorms. The doors look as if they have been kicked open. 

The worst is the small skeleton of a child, lying in one of the beds in the apprentice quarters, a knife sticking from its chest. She decides she may have to cleanse the entire area with a controlled burn if she is to stay here.

She is surprised that she has not encountered any demons or spirits or wraiths yet. With so much death and the commonality of Fade rifts within Ferelden, she had expected the Hold to be full of former Fade-dwellers, but it is silent. She almost wishes she'd found something to fight. 

Though it is silent, the tower speaks to her in the way it had so many years ago, and she feels as if an old, weary friend is welcoming her back home. She hates it, and she is reminded again of her conversation with Alistair so many years ago. For a moment, she stands still and allows the familiarity of the place to surround her, and suddenly the Hold seems cold and dark and haunted, and Joanna shivers involuntarily. She never truly belonged here.

She makes her way up to the senior mage quarters and finds it just as blood-soaked, burnt, and strewn with bodies as the apprentice quarters, so she tries to focus on one tiny spot of clean stone down the hallway in front of her and makes her way towards Irving's office, stepping carefully over the bodies and trying to keep the faintly lingering smell of burning flesh from permeating her nostrils. She lies to herself that this is a trick of the Fade, and that she is simply dreaming, but it is not working.

Joanna reaches Irving's office and is surprised to find the door closed. Resisting the bizarre temptations to knock, she carefully turns the knob and peeks her head into the room, shocked to find it almost completely untouched, save for the chair toppled over onto the ground and a few scattered pages on the floor. Everything is covered in a thin film of dust, and the office smells musty, as if the door had not been opened until now.

"Base camp," Joanna mutters under her breath, moving quickly towards the desk and shrugging her heavy pack from her shoulders. She rests her pack against the desk and then begins to shuffle through the drawers in Irving's desk, not truly knowing what she is looking for.

Her attention turns to the bookcases: she knows that Irving kept some of the forbidden books in his office, but most were kept in the cellar near the phylactery chamber. Perhaps if she finds his journal or records of what happened after Jowan escaped, then she can get back into the cellar and find... a book?  _Something_  that can give her the information she needs. She's  _knows_  that she is here for a reason - she can feel it in every fibre of her being. 

Joanna rummages through the bookcase, her indomitable focus distracting her from the slow footsteps approaching the room. It is only when the door squeals as it is pushed open again that she finally realizes she is not alone.

******

**DENERIM:**

"Any word?"

"No, Your Majesty. The last missive we received from Warden-Commander Amell was the one from a few days ago. We have sent word to The Spoiled Princess but have not heard back."

Alistair hangs his head and sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Joanna's last letter was much too vague, and, in contrast, Leliana's frequent missives are almost too informative... and much too cloying. He'd written her back himself:

_Does no one in Thedas have any faith in my ability to be king on my own anymore?!_

Leliana hadn't acknowledged the question, but had made a point to ask him if he was sleeping and eating well. He'd been tempted to reply scathingly, but he owed her and her agents for flushing out the Venatori and her friend Josephine for successfully hosting his peace talks with the Empress. Though he'd never forget Celene's delight at the confirmation that he would have Joanna serving in his court upon her return.

" _Eet seems zat you are adopting zee Orlesian way of running your court, King Alistair_ ," Celene had said smugly in that Orlesian accent that sounded like nails on a chalkboard, " _I must say zat I whole-heartedly approve. A court enchanter eez an integral advisor_."

He'd smiled and attempted to be pleasant after that, but he'd only wanted her to shut up. At least he hadn't started a war, and the talks had gone well enough to inspire Celene to invite Joanna and he to Halamshiral for an official state visit once the whole Corypheus mess was cleaned up. He'd wanted to refuse, but Josephine's glare was almost as claustrophobia-inducing as Leliana's, so he'd begrudgingly accepted and returned the invitation to Celene and her elven "Marquise".

It had been an unspoken point of commonality between Celene and Alistair: both with 'forbidden' lovers helping them to maintain a rule on their respective kingdoms. He hated that _Celene_ of all people was the one person who understood what he was going through.

"Thank you," Alistair says to the messenger, giving him a warm smile. Under Eamon's urging, Alistair has been attempting to become friendly with his staff so he can remember some of their faces, lest the Venatori try to sneak anyone else into the castle. 

Alistair frowns: Eamon has certainly been making more suggestions than usual lately. Some have been completely ridiculous, like appointing a food-tester (albeit a  _well-paid_  food tester, complete with a binding contract and compensation for his family should he perish in the king's service), and others have been well-thought out, strategic maneuvers that Alistair didn't even know his uncle could conceive of. Eamon has also begun insisting Alistair learn Orlesian and maybe Nevarran, and has been supplementing the library with specially-ordered books and other tomes delivered all hours of the day.

And, suddenly, it dawns on him: though Eamon is a smart, cunning, proactive man, his sudden influx of activity doesn't smell like Eamon's particular brand of productivity. No, no... this level of productivity and interest has Joanna's stink all over it, and perhaps a whiff of Leliana. 

Alistair pushes himself away from his desk and casually makes his way through the castle towards Eamon's office, trying to appear inconspicuous. The hallways are relatively clear, and he sneaks through the castle relatively unseen, reaching Eamon’s office in no time.

The desk is littered with papers, parchment, tomes, and little notes to himself, but on the top of a large stack of parchment is a short letter filled with a very familiar script.

He picks it up:

_Eamon,_

_Thank you for the update. I am trying to write my letters to Alistair carefully to prevent him from worrying about me or give him any idea that I need his assistance. I can only imagine how difficult it is for him to be cooped up at court day after day while I am away on this mission._

_I am confident I will be successful and that I will return soon. I just don't know exactly when._

_Exactly how much did Alistair protest about the food-tester? Did you take into consideration what I suggested about having the man sign a contract and putting together an insurance boon for his family should he perish? I had another thought: if he does die while in Alistair's service, his body should be given the same rites as someone of high-standing. He is, essentially, akin to a bodyguard. Think about it._

_I was glad to hear of the success with the peace talks with Empress Celene. Of course Alistair did a fine job. I beg you not to question him: he is a fine king and I trust his loyalty and compassion above all else. Give him space, loving guidance, and your full trust, and I guarantee you that he will not let you down. If you require any further advice from me, please consult Alistair on it first. From here on, I will only respond to his handwriting when it comes to matters of the court_  

_And please ask Teagan to stop asking me for love advice. It's a waste of a bird and, frankly, kind of disturbing._

_Give Alistair my love._

_J._

 

"The door is locked for a reason, Alistair," Eamon says softly behind him, his gentle voice filling the room.

"To hide your correspondence?" Alistair murmurs, shaking Joanna's letter gently in the air.

"In part, yes," Eamon answers honestly.

"And to hide your lack of trust in my ability to run my kingdom?"

"No, Alistair. I have the utmost faith in you as our king."

"Then why all this?" Alistair asks defensively, tuning towards Eamon and gesturing to the letters, "Why turn to Joanna and the Inquisiton for help when you can come and speak to me?"

Eamon thinks for a moment and then replies thoughtfully, "Because Joanna knows you better than anyone, perhaps even better than you know yourself. At least for right now.”

Alistair gives him a confused look, his hand still grasping Joanna’s letter tightly.

"I know Joanna could rule this country. Handily. She has the patience, compassion, sensibility, and leadership that you would expect in a queen. I just wish that you could see that you have all of those qualities, too," Eamon insists, "Except, maybe, the patience part of it. We have been granted a great boon from the nobility in allowing her to openly be with you and as a voice behind the throne, and I will consult her on as many matters as I can, but her voice should never drown out yours.  _You_  can do this, Alistair. _Stop_ waiting for everyone to tell you that you're wrong! You must have faith in yourself: you must be the one to lead. You must be the one to consult when consulting is needed, and to decide when a decision needs to be made. You rely too much on Joanna, Teagan, and I for the answers when you already know them. You are a great king; _you_ just have to believe it. And, trust me, the minute you do, everyone else will, too. The nobility will stop asking for Joanna's opinion only, and will instead look to you and you alone, but you have to own that."

Alistair swallows hard.

Eamon continues, "You have a choice, Alistair: you can be the king you know you can be, or you can be the king in name only while Joanna rules from behind the throne. Ferelden will be in good hands either way, but you must make your choice before Joanna returns."

"And what if I choose to let her rule?"

Eamon's face falls. "Then I will accept your choice, but I believe that you will always regret not taking the chance on yourself."

"Ferelden has survived these past ten years with me being king in name only, and with your guidance."

"But, Alistair, think of what Ferelden could be if you were king, a _true_ king. The country would stop simply surviving and would start thriving."

"You would leave that in my hands?"

"I did ten years ago. That hasn't changed. It will not."

"Why does it feel so different?"

"Because you've woken up," Eamon admits, "You see through clearer eyes. You finally know the weight of the power and responsibility you've always held in your hands. Teagan and I have been helping you, but we will not be around forever. We will always support you, but we will no longer bear a burden that has never been ours. Not when you've been able to carry it on your own all along."

Alistair feels it, then, the weight on his shoulders. The burden Eamon speaks of: the weight of the entire country in his hands. _His_  country. His home. The country he would die for... the country he slept with a _witch_ for. Ferelden is his life, his mistress, the soft place to lay his head, and the shelter from the storm. It is not a burden, nor a ball and chain to be dragged around in the dirt, but a gem to be picked up and dusted off and displayed proudly for all to see. It’s been that way for ten years. Ten Maker-forsaken years.

Slowly, he straightens up and sets his shoulders and jaw, looking as though he is posing for a portrait. Eamon gives him a questioning look, but then grins at him proudly and nods.

"My king," Eamon loudly declares, bowing deeply. 

And, for the first time in a decade, Alistair feels honoured to be called as such. 

*****

**KINLOCH HOLD:**

Joanna's hand reaches for her staff, but the shadowy figure that has entered the room has already frozen her and she lets out a frustrated noise as the ice spell wears off and releases her. She falls to the floor and holds up a hand to cast a blast of fire towards the figure, but she is stayed by the unexpected voice that emerges from underneath the hood. The old, gravelly, kind, and familiar voice.

"Joanna? Amell?"

She almost jumps out of her skin at the sight of him, and tries to keep her jaw from hitting the floor. He has wrinkles upon wrinkles, black circles upon black circles, and frown lines upon frown lines; the years have not been kind to First Enchanter Irving. For a moment, she is uncertain that it is _actually_ Irving and not just his reanimated corpse.

“F-first Enchanter?” she stutters, her eyes bugging out of her head even more than his.

"Why have you come here? This is nothing but a dusty old ruin now," Irving coughs. “I suppose it’s not the _only_ dusty, old ruin here anymore.”

Joanna helps him walk over to his desk and sit down, and she gives him some of her special water: she has muddled it with elfroot, embrium, and some spindleweed as a healing cocktail of sorts. He takes it gratefully and chuckles, “Thank you. That helps very much. I see that you’re still a master herbalist.”

“I try.”

“Why have you come here, Joanna?”

"Fiona sent me," she says, the astonished tone in her voice making Irving chuckle and, subsequently, cough again.

"The Grand Enchanter? She's alive?"

"And well," Joanna confirms, "she is at Skyhold with the Inquisition. She said that you may have some books here that may help in my research to end The Calling."

Irving cracks a smile. "I can assume that you didn't expect to also find me here."

"No, sir, but I must tell that I am relieved to see that you still live. Perhaps you should go to Skyhold."

"My place is _here_ ," Irving replies calmly, pushing himself up from the chair and moving slowly towards the bookshelves, "I fear that this tower and I are mutually holding each other together. If one crumbles, so does the other."

Joanna gives him a small smile, but she fears for the man. It cannot be healthy for him to be cooped up here alone, but she reminds herself that he has survived thus far. 

"What have you found so far?" Irving mutters, his fingers running over the dusty spines of the tomes in front of him.

"Fiona believes that the answer lies within the taint and the blood of the Wardens themselves. She was looking into why some die from the taint and others - the Wardens - survive."

"And?"

"She believes it may have to do with a superior strain within the blood to begin with, like why some can become reavers after drinking dragon's blood. The power is there to begin with, and she believes that the taint simply hitches onto this power. Fiona said we need to find something to help it detach."

"And what did she tell you of how the taint was drawn from her?"

Joanna gives Irving a confused look. "I'm sorry?"

"Ah. Then perhaps Fiona is not content to believe it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you heard the legends of Calenhad and the power that lies within Theirin blood?"

"What? Those old legends about Calenhad having dragon's blood and that kind of shite?"

"Precisely," Irving answers, smiling to himself and coughing again. 

Joanna is shocked. "You don't actually believe that, do you?"

"I was _there_ , Joanna. There were no rituals or potions or spells. Fiona simply became pregnant. Perhaps she is correct about superior bloodlines."

Joanna gapes at Irving. "You... knew. You knew about Alistair? All this time, you kept his secret, too."

"Of course. I made a promise," Irving scoffs.

"So, you're saying that we just need to ship Alistair to each Warden and have him impregnate them and we can end the Callings? Simple as that!"

Irving rolls his eyes at her. "If that were the only option, then I would have told you so. He has tainted blood anyways: it would not work. We need to figure out if the rumours of dragon's blood are true and, if so, what that means for a cure. But, I must warn you, Joanna: the tomes that I am to give you have been locked away for a reason.  Even simply reading of blood magic has corrupted stronger minds."

Joanna nods at him. "I _must_ find the cure. My determination will see me past any temptation."

Irving gives her a skeptical look. "I believe you, but do not let that determination blind you. Blood magic is still blood magic, no matter if it is used in the name of something honourable. Be careful that your quest to find a cure does not lead you down a darker path."

"I have seen what the darkness holds, sir. I will never give into it."

Irving sighs and hangs his head. "Then I will help you. Maker watch over us."

He leads her from his office towards the cellar, leaning on her heavily and coughing. The wards are still active as they near the phylactery chamber, but Irving simply waves his hand and murmurs a few words, and they breeze through unscathed. 

Joanna is astounded to see the number of intact phylacteries within the chamber. She was under the impression that all were taken to Val Royeaux immediately after a mage’s Harrowing, but the number of dusty bottles that line the shelves in front of her give her a slight peek into what fell by the wayside during the Circle’s decline.

Irving can sense her surprise. "These are all of the phylacteries from the year before the Circles rebelled. We never had the chance to send them to Val Royeaux, so they have sat here for the past couple years."

"Didn't the rebels try to seize them?"

"They must have thought them sent to The Spire. I doubt even the templars knew that we still had all of this right under our noses."

Curiosity strikes her then: "Was my phylactery ever sent to Val Royeaux?"

"No, it was not. You were recruited to the Grey Wardens so soon after your Harrowing that we never had a chance. Part of you being conscripted meant that your phylactery was to be destroyed. And so it was," Irving chuckles, "Greagoir had a fit about that."

"Whatever happened to him?"

Irving frowns deeply and sadly, and pauses for awhile before he answers her, "He was killed by two of his own knights, trying to protect a group of apprentices that had surrendered. They just cut him down. And then they locked the apprentices in their quarters and burned them alive."

Joanna swallows past the lump in her throat. "I am so, so sorry."

"It is sad when such atrocities have happened so often that the platitudes become automatic, isn't it?"

Joanna nods, recalling a conversation she had with the Inquisitor before she'd left Skyhold:

"Every time I kill someone," Jane had told her, her face sad and dark, "I know that I've just killed someone's child, or sister, or brother, or parent. They weren't just another bandit or rogue mage or templar; they were someone to somebody. And then I turn them into a stain on the grass in the name of peace and justice. But where is the justice in it? Where is the line crossed?"

Joanna hadn't known how to answer her.

"Here we are," Irving says, interrupting her thoughts, as they come up to an odd looking door Joanna hadn't noticed before. Irving rubbed his hands together and placed them upon the door, his eyes closed and his lips pressed tightly together. Suddenly, his hands glow a bright green, and a rush of air blows by them, rustling the hem of the First Enchanter's robe and sending a chill down Joanna's spine. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a cobweb blow in the breeze and she swallows hard; of course there has to be spiders.

"What was that?" she breathes.

"I told you these tomes are dangerous. They are looked after by a spirit of valor that protects this door, and will only open the door if the correct spell is used. I will teach it to you when we return to my office." Irving outstretches his arm into the darkness beyond the door. "Shall we?"

*****

They have spent the last week searching through the dark, dank cellar, and Joanna has learned more of blood magic than she ever thought possibly. She is beginning to worry about Irving, especially as his coughing fits are becoming more and more frequent and violent, but he insists on descending the stairs with her each day and rummaging through the tomes for even a clue as to what her next step should be.

Joanna has insisted each day that he stay behind, but Irving is known for his stubborn ways; a fact that he is only too happy to recollect, filling her days and evenings with stories of how much his ‘stubbornness’ aggravated Greagoir. Normally, interruptions to her studies and research would bother her to no end, but now she is grateful for the distraction every now and then.

Irving also asks her periodically about her relationship with King Alistair, and she is more open and honest with him than she’s been with anyone else… even Alistair.

In return for his company, Joanna has been caring for Irving the best she can, using her healing spells and herbal remedies to try to alleviate some of his pain and coughing, but he consistently reminds her that he is ready when his time comes.

Joanna is reminded yet again of a conversation she had with Jane Trevelyan about Death:

“I do not fear Death,” Jane had told her, “It’s the dying that scares me.”

Joanna had to completely agree: it was how she felt about The Calling.

Irving takes a sharp inhale of air, and Joanna whirls around, panicking that he is about to start another coughing fit. She hates to think about it, but each fit that wracks him could be his last.

But he is not about the begin coughing, he is staring at an antique tome held tightly in his hands.

“Joanna.” His voice cracks on her name, and his eyes look especially sunken into his skull as he stares into her eyes. “Look.”

She furrows her brow, but is at Irving’s side in a minute, peering over his shoulder. The page is filled with hastily-scrawled notes and bloody fingerprints, drawings, and extremely complex alchemical formulas, but Irving is pointing to the top of a page with his bony, shaking hand, the whites of his eyes seeming to illuminate the entire area.

Joanna squints and peers at where he is pointing.

There, written clearly at the top of the page in ink is a note:

_In blood life is given, and in blood it is taken away. In blood it is found, and in blood it is led astray. In blood it is sheltered, in blood in is lured. In blood it is tainted, in blood it is cured._

Joanna gasps and her heart begins to pound at the realization. “I know what I have to do.”


	17. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When you're lovers in a dangerous time  
>  Sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime   
> Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight   
> Got to kick at the darkness 'til it bleeds daylight_
> 
>  
> 
> \- From “Lovers In A Dangerous Time” by The Barenaked Ladies

Though her entire body hummed with anticipation and frustration at having the next step in her journey so assuredly laid out for her and was itching to leap towards it at full speed, our Joanna is, as I’ve mentioned prior, a healer at heart, and leaving Irving at Kinloch Hold was not an option. She knew that, regardless of how long she stayed with Irving, she could only make him comfortable before the inevitable happened. So, she agreed to stay for as long as he needed her, even after he repeatedly insisted that she could leave him on his own, though he also repeatedly admitted that his ‘time’ was on the horizon.

At least she could make him comfortable, correct his cough, and lessen his suffering as he neared the last stretch of his life. His gratitude and, even he had to admit it, relief at her presence and healing efforts was profoundly expressed to her daily, even as he weakened and could no longer get up and walk around. It even came to a point where Irving was unable to speak, so he had written her pages upon pages of scrolls for her to deliver to several people, but mostly he had written her his life story and poured all of his magical and worldly knowledge out onto the parchment. And, true to what she’d always seen, it was his fingers that dictated how much time he had left, so, when his fingers were no longer able to even grasp a quill, Joanna knew that he would not make it through the night.

And so, about a month and a half after she vowed to stay with Irving until he needed her, she woke up one morning and found that he no longer needed her.

He’d told her once that the tower and he were mutually holding each other together, and that if one crumbles so would the other, and, a few days after Irving passed, the tower began to ‘act’ differently. It just _felt_ different, and it didn’t _crumble_ per se, but actually seemed to begin to _decay_.

So she ventured back to The Spoiled Princess and the owner was able to procure another boat so that they could send Irving off in the way that every Fereldan deserved, and, when she finally left to journey forth, she took a last look back at the tower and swore that she saw it sag a little.

****

Now, I must stop the story here for a minute to keep you up to date on the other ‘goings-ons’ within Thedas. Whilst Joanna was taking care of Irving, the Inquisition defeated Corypheus, sealed the Breach for good, and Leliana was named Divine Victoria, and Joanna was none the wiser. Alistair and Leliana’s birds were unable to reach her in Kinloch due to, also unbeknownst to Joanna, the tower itself was keeping them out with residual magic, so it was only when she left the tower that the messengers were able to find her.

Leliana, as Divine Victoria, had created reforms almost immediately after she took the Sunburst Throne, including disbanding the Circles of Magi and proclaiming that the mages would govern themselves, and many thought that this first, radical proclamation was because of her friendship with Joanna and, by extension, her close ties to King Alistair. There were some who decided that the king himself had been the main influence behind the Divine’s decision so that he could make Joanna queen, and the revolts against the Divine soon moved into Denerim. It had worn on Alistair greatly without Joanna there, but the Divine is quick in her denouncement of the revolts and they are quickly silenced. She also declares her support for the Inquisition, a move that rumour tells Alistair is unhappy about, and so the protests in Denerim ring hollow until they desist completely.

But, even as the new Divine is able to keep the Chantry strong amidst the drastic changes and the people united under her rule, the shifts made send shockwaves throughout Thedas and, namely, Ferelden. Alistair is overwhelmed with rumour and speculation that he will soon push for the Chantry to allow him to make Joanna his wife, and it is made even more difficult because the thought has been on his mind constantly since Divine Victoria – Leliana – had freed the mages.

However, his concern for Joanna has only grown, especially since he has not had word from her in over two months. Eamon has not stopped giving him those annoying, knowing looks each time messages arrive and are not from Joanna, and Alistair wants nothing more than to throw his roll across the table at his uncle and hope that it hits him in the eye so that they hurt enough that Eamon can no longer roll them or shoot him looks.

Teagan, on the other hand, has been nothing but supportive and comforting.

“You would know,” Teagan told him on more than one occasion, “you’d know if she wasn’t going to return. She made a promise.”

“But it’s dangerous for her. The rumours, the revolts, the… villagers running about with pitchforks and torches! They don’t want her to be queen. They’ll hunt her down.”

“Oh Alistair, you’re overreacting. They’re not patrolling the fields calling for Joanna’s head.”

And, even though Alistair knew that Teagan was right, he cannot feel that, yet again, he has placed Joanna in danger simply because she has decided to be with him.

“Joanna is no stranger to difficult situations and, if I may say, _hiding_ ,” Teagan had also told him, which, somehow, had actually made Alistair feel better.

Alistair has conveyed this to Joanna in his latest missive which, he had to admit, was a little desperate and cloying, but he couldn’t help it. He needed her. Two months had felt like two years, and he was desperate for even just a hint that she was still alive, or for a little confirmation that she was still going to come back to him.

And, as our Joanna reads the missive that has finally been delivered to her, she allows Alistair’s desperation and worry to sink in the same way that everything else has sunk in: not well. She is siting in the back of a wagon, clutching the missives that have been hammering her hourly since she left Kinloch, shock wracking her body in waves and giving her so brutal a headache that even she is uncertain she’ll be able to heal it.

She is proud of Leliana, thrilled about the Inquisition’s victories, and more than worried about Alistair’s desperate message, and suddenly terribly conflicted. She should return to Alistair, but her quest is too important to abandon, especially since the path towards her goal is so clear. She makes a mental note to ask him to send his worry token along with his next letter if he’s able to part with it during such stressful, dangerous times.

Luckily, she is heading towards Denerim anyways.


	18. Avernus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All the roads were straight and narrow  
>  And the prayers were small and yellow  
> And the rumour spread that I was aging fast  
> Then I ran across a monster who was sleeping by a tree_
> 
> _And I looked and frowned and the monster was me._
> 
> \- From “Width of a Circle” by David Bowie

Soldier’s Peak is different, and she feels wary as she walks the hill towards the Keep, as if each step is bringing her closer and closer to danger and inevitable doom, but as she enters the empty courtyard, the place feels calm and a soothing sense of familiarity washes over her, so very unlike the feeling of familiarity that hit her upon approaching Kinloch Hold. Perhaps she is simply nervous that she’s betting her entire future – the entire future of the _Wardens_ – on a feeling. An idea. A gamble. A _risk_. Soldier’s Peak is the one place – the one thing – that has felt _familiar_ during her entire quest. Aside from Alistair, of course, but only Alistair.

It is still early, but she can see Mikhael’s smithing tools and tables set-up and ready for the day along with several buckets of wash that look as if they had been recently placed there to hang. The last time she was here was a few years back, when she had stayed overnight during a brief trip to Highever, and the place still looks the same. She wonders if there is perhaps some residual magic or aura from Sophia’s last stand that envelops the place like a warm blanket.

“Hello?” she calls out, “Levi? Levi Dryden?”

Her voice hangs in the air for a tick, filling the empty space around her, until she hears one of the doors to her right open and a familiar, if aged, face peers out at her.

“Well, I’ll be… Warden-Commander Amell?”

“Levi. It’s good to see you again.”

He gives her a warm smile and walks towards her, his hand outstretched. She shakes it gingerly.

“It’s been awhile, my lady,” Levi says, blinking slowly as if he is still shaking off the last bit of sleep, “The last time we saw you here was…”

“Several years ago. I was just passing through then.”

“And now?”

“Now… uh,” she looks around Soldier’s Peak and shuffles her feet. “I’m not sure how long I can stay. Are you able to put me up?”

“Of course, anything for the woman who made this possible. I’ll have my Freya make up one of the staterooms.”

“Thank you. Tell me: does Avernus still live?”

“Aye, Warden-Commander. It’s funny you should mention him: when I took him dinner last night he said something strange. It was as if he was expecting you.”

Joanna takes a step back, and odd sense of relief washing over her in droves. “What do you mean?”

“He told me that we would be welcoming a long overdue visitor in the morning. And then some rubbish and pish about how he had head Fate herself sing of ‘her’ arrival. I suppose he meant you.”

“I can’t believe he’s still alive… I...”

“Neither can I, Warden,” Levi chuckles, “I’ve mentioned it to him once or twice, and each time he just mutters ‘work not done, work not done yet’ under his breath like a maniac. He hasn’t been bothersome, and he keeps to himself. I think the last time he was out of that tower was ten years ago when we reclaimed the Peak.”

Joanna sighs, “I must speak with him. I believe that his research may aid me on my quest, or perhaps he knows where to send me. It may sound… silly, but I believe that what he said about Fate was true: I was reminded of Avernus of a simple note, and I must speak with him.”

Levi’s kind eyes become sympathetic as her voice begins to crack, “I’m here on only a hunch, but that hunch could be the Warden’s saving grace.”

He chuckles at her and shakes his head, “I hope you don’t mind me sayin’, Warden-Commander, but haven’t you always been the Warden’s saving grace?”

******

Levi leaves her at the door to the tower, a tight knot forming between his eyes as he stares at the door. She notices the disgust behind his irises as he stares at the door, but the look is replaced by one of comfort as he smiles at her. Joanna is grateful for Levi’s presence, but instinctively knows that he will not set foot inside the tower.

He places a gentle hand on her back. “He’s kept his promise to you, you know. His research has been as ethical as I could discern; I’ve never seen anyone come in here and ‘not come out’ if you know what I mean.”

“That’s reassuring,” she scoffed.

“Be… careful, Warden-Commander. He’s erratic and possibly dangerous.”

She chuckles, “’Erratic’ and ‘possibly dangerous’ has been the theme of my life for the last decade. I think I can handle an ancient Grey Warden mage.”

Levi raises an eyebrow at her. “I’ve heard stories, Commander. From what I hear, mages and the Grey Wardens don’t exactly go well together.”

Joanna snorts laughter and gives Levi a grateful look. “You have no idea.”

Levi knocks three times on the door, and then waits for a few seconds, then knocks twice more. He shrugs and looks back at Joanna. “It’s a special knock that he asked me to do so that he knows it’s me. As if anyone else would venture up here.”

She feels the ward on the door release and it swings open, and Levi takes a step back as if he has just been hit by a pungent odour. But she smells it too, and, even though it burns her nostrils, something about the overbearing scent of it all makes the magic crackle and tingle under her skin.

Joanna steps gingerly over the multiple dragonling carcasses and wrinkles her nose as the smell of rotting flesh, lyrium, Andraste's Grace, and some other smells that she cannot place clog her nostrils again and make her stomach churn violently. Her mana is pulsating around her and her magic crackles in her ears as she makes her way towards the figure hunched over a long, bloodstained desk in the back of the room. She knows that it is Avernus, but it looks as though she is staring at a potato sack draped over a pile of bones, and she can see his shoulders heave violently with each breath as if each time he inhales it causes him great pain.

On a table to her right is a mass of tomes, poultice bottles, various herbs, drake scales, and a drake head draped with bloody rags and drying prophet’s laurel, embrium, elfroot, and… long grass. She knots her eyebrows together and touches the long grass to verify that it was, in fact, _just_ grass.

“Yes,” she mutters, “yes, it’s just grass.”

Joanna can only imagine what smart comment Alistair would have if he were here. He’d probably make a comment about how Avernus dressed up for her, and how he thinks that Avernus’ dress looked better on a sack of potatoes, but that he respected him for trying to bring it back. She can hear his voice in the back of her mind, and it gives her comfort and a pinch of bravery to approach Avernus.

To only add to the general vibe of “creepy”, Avernus is muttering to himself under his breath in a pitchy, cracking, breathy voice:

_Gain the greater mastery over the body’s potential._

_Gains the. Mastery. Body’s potential._

_No demons. Body’s potential._

_Body’s potential._

_Blood. Potential. Blood. Blood._

“Avernus?

_Learn how to enhance it. Learn how to harness it. Learn how to take it away._

_Reverse. Reverse. REVERSE!_

“Avernus!” she shouts, and she sees him flinch, but only a little bit. He turns towards her and raises his eyebrows, but he appears more annoyed than anything else.

He turns on his heel dramatically, and whips around to glare at her over his shoulder. His eyes have even deeper, darker circles than she’d ever thought possible on a human being – she is not sure if he even has eyes anymore or if they have simply been sucked back into his eye sockets. He still looks like a walking corpse, but she is uncertain if his bones are able to support him or if he’s employing magic to aid him in standing, breathing… living…

Avernus narrows his eyes at her again, sizing her up as she sizes him up. “You’ve aged.”

“Are you done with whatever you’re trying to do here? Sarcasm isn’t a good colour on you.”

He chuckles ironically, “You cannot say that you weren’t thinking the exact same thing about me just now, Warden-Commander.”

She doesn’t answer because, well, he’s right. She arches her eyebrow at him again, but bites her lip to avoid laughing. “To an extent,” she admitted, shrugging slightly. “Glad to see we’re on the same page.”

“If we were on the same page, you would’ve been here a week ago. It’s about time you showed up, Warden-Commander,” he sneers, burying his nose back into his book and scribbling fiercely in the margins. “I was starting to believe that this was all for nothing.”

Joanna is annoyed, but she stays put, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head to the side. She purses her lips at him and raises her eyebrows, tapping her foot against the stone floor, but he is better at ignoring her than she is waiting him out.

She exhales heavily. “ _What_ was all for nothing?”

Avernus stares at her and presents her with a large tome, stuffed with papers. “All of it,” he croaks, “Everything I have ever discovered is in here. It has taken me many long years, but I have found it… I have found it, Joanna.”

“Found _what_? What have you found, Avernus?”

He gives her a weak smile, his face wrinkling even more than she thought possible. His eyes seem to bug out of his head, and he grabs her hand tightly, his grip unusually strong. “The cure. The cure for The Calling.”


	19. Fate, Herself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _People tell me it's a crime  
>  To know too much for too long of a time  
> She should have caught me at my prime  
> She would have stayed with me  
> Instead of going off to sea  
> And leaving me  
> To meditate  
> Upon that simple twist of fate_
> 
> \- From “Simple Twist of Fate” by Bob Dylan

_A cure._ The words hammer in her head over and over, and she hates that there are only two words standing between her and the rest of her life. She feels her chest begin to heave involuntarily, and her knees buckle under her, causing her to feel incredibly faint and brace herself against a nearby table.

Avernus gives her another annoyed look as she jostles everything on the table in front of her, spilling some of the wax from the many candles upon the table onto the decaying wood, but his eyes soften as she leans down and cradles her head in her hands and heaves as she tries to prevent herself from vomiting.

“Well, Joanna, I must tell you that this was not the reaction that I was hoping for.”

She glares at him and feels her nostrils flare out angrily. He cowers a bit at her and takes a step back, shrinking a little at her gaze. “You’ll have to _excuse me_ , but I’ve spent the last _ten years_ of my life looking for this. My entire _fucking_ future is dependent on this. On _you_. So _please_ , don’t mind me.”

“I… I am sorry,” Avernus stammers, “I suppose that I can understand working so hard to find something for so many years.”

Joanna softens immediately and gives him a half-smile. She wants to drop to her knees and bury her head in her hands and cry until she could not produce any more tears.

"There is, however, a catch."

"Of course there is," Joanna mutters under her breath, the urge to cry abating instantly, "What is it?"

"I am missing a critical ingredient. It has been what has eluded me all these years, but now it is within our grasp!"

"What is it?"

"Fate herself showed me where to find it in the Fade as I slept, just as She foretold your arrival," Avernus blusters excitedly, tripping over his words, "You are the key, Joanna, don't you _see_? Retrieve this ingredient for me and the taint within your veins - within the veins of all Wardens - will be cured."

"Tell me," she breathes.

"How far would you go to find the cure? How far are you willing to go to help me complete this?"

Joanna takes a deep breath and pauses slightly before answering, "As far as it takes."

"Would you be willing to journey into the unknown to save the Wardens? The King?"

"Stop with the cryptic shite!" she cries, desperation bubbling up into her voice and beginning to fill the room. "I will do _anything_ to cure the Calling. Just tell me what I need to do!"

Avernus winces and then takes his own, deep breath, "You must journey far beyond the Anderfels. There is a path, but you can only find it if you know where it is. I have been shown its location by Fate, and through Fate, I shall pass it along to you. Beyond this path, in the depths of the unexplored realm, is a flower. A blue centre and yellow petals growing atop a long, thin stem. You must retrieve this flower if I am to complete the cure."

Joanna gapes at him, open-mouthed and disbelieving. "You're joking."

"I beg your..."

"Let me get this perfectly clear: you want me to wander into uncharted territory to find a fucking _flower_ that you were shown in a dream? A dream is nothing more than a hunch… you…” she sighs again and drags a frustrated hand through her dirty hair, “You're asking me to place an awful lot of faith in a hunch."

"Is a hunch not what brought you here?" Avernus snaps back at her, clearly irritated at her interruption.

She is silent.

" _Fate herself_ has had a hand in this: you cannot deny this fact any longer. You will be walking into un chartered territory, but you will not be walking in blind."

"What, did 'Fate herself' give you a map?" Joanna barks sarcastically.

Avernus smiles at her knowingly, and then produces a large piece of parchment with a very elegant, very recent, and very clear drawing of a map she’s never seen the like of on it. Weaving rivers and jagged lines that she assumes represent mountains dot it, and she notices that Avernus has drawn a picture of the flower beside the legend in the bottom right hand corner. He has titled the map _The Unknown_.

He chuckles, "Why, yes, now that you mention it: she did."

***********

The next morning, she wakes restless and anxious. She is uncertain whether or not she should write to Alistair to tell him where here journey is taking her next. She can imagine how utterly uncomfortable he has been since she’s been gone with minimal correspondence from her, but, she knows what is keeping him from collapsing in on himself like a dying star and taking all of Ferelden with him: her promise to return. Her declaration of love, her commitment, her promise… her _vow_.

Tears prick in her eyes and she gives her head a shake. “Damn it, Joanna, pull yourself together,” she mutters to herself. She pulls up a chair to the rickety desk that is in the room Levi and Freya have held as ‘hers’, and she dips her quill into the inkwell she’d filled just last night. The empty parchment glares back at her, and she begins to write.

_Alistair,_

_I love you._

She puts the quill down and cradles her head in her hands, staring at the words on the page. Her eyes are wide and beginning to swell with tears, so she whips her head to the side and is confronted by her reflection in the mirror.

Old. Tired. Weary. Thin. Sallow.

Joanna picks up the paperweight and screams in frustration as she hurls it at the mirror, the sound of glass shattering in her ears and causing her to cry out again in pain. Her chest heaves and she stares at the shards of glass now littering the floor, the mirrored side facing the ceiling and showing her distorted views of the features of her face. The black circles under her red-rimmed eyes are especially exaggerated, and she sighs and slumps backwards in the chair, finally breaking down and allowing the sobs to escape from her throat, the salty taste of her tears catching in her mouth as they pour down her face. She stands and then kneels gently to begin to clean the fractured mirror, lest Freya have to complete such a dangerous task on her account, but one of the shards slices the tip of her finger and she gasps, staring at the blood beginning to run into the palm of her hand.

_In blood life is given, and in blood it is taken away. In blood it is found, and in blood it is led astray. In blood it is sheltered, in blood in is lured. In blood it is tainted, in blood it is cured._

She turns and stares at the letter to Alistair, still on top of the desk, and then sighs and shakes her head. She cannot send only four words to him; he would ride towards Soldier's Peak at once, fraught with worry. But she needs allies... or an ally, at the very least. Every inch of subconscious she has is telling her that she should not journey into the unknown alone. But the allies she has left are limited: Alistair has a kingdom to tend to, Leliana has a continent, Sten his own country, and Morrigan has her son.

Joanna shakes her head, but… then a lightbulb flicks on. She smiles to herself, picks herself up from the floor, sits at the chair with her bloodied finger in her mouth, and begins to write again. At the end of the day, two letters are sent, and neither of them leave for Denerim.


	20. The Great Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I was a-ready to die for you, baby  
>  Doesn't mean I'm ready to stay  
> What good is livin' a life you've been given  
> If all you do is stand in one place  
> I'm on a river that winds on forever  
> Follow 'til I get where I'm goin'  
> Maybe I'm headin' to die but I'm still gonna try  
> I guess I'm goin' alone_
> 
> _To the ends of the earth, would you follow me  
>  There's a world that was meant for our eyes to see  
> To the ends of the earth, would you follow me  
> Well if you want, I will say my goodbyes to me_
> 
> \- From “Ends of the Earth” by Lord Huron

Joanna sees the path through the mountains shortly before nightfall, almost two weeks after she left Soldier’s Peak. She’s left all of her earthly possessions there, in the room that Levi and Freya were holding for her, with the promise that they would be there for when she returned.

If _I return_.

She clenches her teeth and looks up at the mountains towering above her and dismounts her horse, squeezing water from her canteen into the collapsible burlap water bowl she’d fashioned for her trusty steed back in Denerim. The chestnut gelding had been with her the entire journey, and now neither of them may ever see Thedas again. She smiles at him and pats his neck gently, her fingers knotting in his mane.

“Take a good look around, my old friend,” she mutters, “We’re far beyond the ass-end of Thedas now.”

The sun is beginning to set behind the mountains and she does a perimeter sweep before beginning to set up her tent, her horse munching happily on the apples she’d found on their way here. She has been surprised at how different the flora became the closer she got to the pass, but the fruit seemed to be juicier and more plump, and, though she was expecting the area to resemble the Frostbacks, it was significantly more tropical and more foreign than she ever could have imagined. It was just as Avernus said it would be, however.

Every now and then, she glances at the path between the mountains, hidden just as Avernus said it would be, covered in tropical ferns, trees, vines, and plants adorned with shockingly bright flowers. Those flowers, though she had hoped, are not the flowers she is looking for.

Joanna does not know what lies on the other side of the mountains; though the map Avernus gave her is detailed, it is also vague as to what _truly_ lies beyond Fate’s Pass. All she knows is that Avernus believes it to be a tropical paradise, likely filled with strange elves and other creatures, and that she is to find the flower… the _one_ ingredient standing between the Wardens and a new fate.

She has thought of journeying to Weisshaupt, but her gut tells her that it is not the time to wander to such places. Besides, Amelia can handle it for now. Avernus did not believe that she would have to venture far into The Unknown to collect her bounty and, she is praying to the god that she doesn’t even believe in that the old mage is right. She has not been truly frightened of many things in her time, but now she is truly, truly frightened. At least she will not be making the journey alone.

When it becomes dark, she sits on a stump in front of her fire and whistles to her raven, smiling at him as he settles down on her knee. Very carefully, she ties the letter she’d painstakingly written at her last camp to his leg and enchants it, then scratches his head and chuckles at the seemingly content expression on his face as she does. She lifts him up with a finger, and puts her pointer finger gently to his beak.

“Now, Baron Plucky, you know the drill. If I don’t return within three weeks, you’re to fly back to your mistress with this letter. Don’t go too quickly, or…”

“Or disaster shall strike,” the heavily-accented Antivan voice chuckles from behind her.

Joanna turns and smiles broadly. “Just like an assassin, no?”

Zevran walks forward and shakes her hand. “And a handsome elf as well. Are you ready for another adventure, my friend?”

***********

**Denerim:**

Alistair has crumpled Joanna's latest letter in his fist so tightly the paper has created sharp, stinging edges. The letter is not recent, it is dated just a few days before All Soul’s Day, five months ago, and it is vague, as all of her letters have been.

He sighs and takes the letter from his fist, smoothing it out on his desk and hunching over it, reading and re-reading her words over and over again, her smooth, flowing script elegant and beautiful as she is. But yet, even though looking at her words and imagining her writing them is comforting, it is making his heart ache.

Beside Joanna’s letter on his desk is the invitation to Teagan’s upcoming wedding to the brilliant young woman Joanna had given most of her money to back in Redcliffe during the Blight: Kaitlyn. The wedding was to take place in five days’ time in Denerim, and both Alistair and Eamon had been afforded the great honour of standing up beside Teagan as he married the woman he loves.

At first, Alistair had been reluctant to host the wedding at the Palace, and it was purely for selfish reasons: he had trained in the yard the day after he’d received word of the upcoming nuptials, punching and kicking and screaming at and chopping the practise dummy in front of him because it simply wasn’t _fair_. How come Teagan got to marry the woman _he_ wanted - a formerly poor commoner, no less – and Alistair couldn’t? He was _king_ , for fuck’s sake!

But, when he’d finally calmed down and made a conscious decision that kings do not act like children, he found himself genuinely _happy_ for his uncle. The future of Rainesfere and Redcliffe – Maker, the future of _Ferelden_ itself – looked pretty damn bright.

Alistair smiles to himself as he runs his fingers over the embossed red letters on the front of the invitation; he knows that, as he stands beside his uncle and listens to Teagan and his new bride make promises together, he will continue to smile and be happy. Because promises are sacred and, sometimes, they are all that keeps one standing.

****************

**The Grand Cathedral, Val Royeaux,**

Leliana is surprised to receive her raven from Joanna, especially now, but she is grateful to see Baron Plucky again. She knows that Joanna is still searching to cure The Calling, but she has not heard much from her nor Alistair in many months. She would be worried, except that she rarely has time to think, much less worry, lately: the oddities surrounding the elves, her continual, fruitless search for Solas, the odd weather in Val Royeaux as of late, and the Orlesian Empress’ messengers appearing at the Grand Cathedral every hour of every day have been a constant bother.

The raven is soaked from the rain, but the letter looks relatively untouched.

“A mage of no small talent,” Leliana chuckles as she gently removes the letter from the raven’s outstretched foot, her finger tingling slightly as they pass through the magical barrier protecting the letter from the elements, and unravels it slowly, cooing at the raven and snuggling her cheek into him as he hops up to his familiar perch on her shoulder.

The hand is Joanna’s, but it is scrawled across the page as if it had been hastily written, or as if Joanna had been simply writing her thoughts as they came to her. It is most unlike her, and a deep sense of dread sets into Leliana’s heart as she begins to read:

_Leliana,_

_This letter has been sent to you because I have ordered it to. I have journeyed into a place beyond Thedas to find a cure for The Calling: a place the Blight has not touched. A place not of your Maker._

_But, if you receive this letter, then it means that I have been unsuccessful. You have always been a faithful, true, treasured friend to me, and I want you to know that I love you more than I will ever be able to express to you._

_I have left all of my possession with Levi Dryden at Soldier’s Peak; they are Alistair’s should he choose to claim them. Levi is aware that you or Alistair may come for them some day. As you know, I do not have family other than Amelia and Carver Hawke; to them I have nothing to leave, but I request that you at least try to inform Amelia._

_To Oghren, I leave my Conscription wine; he can find it hidden in an old, hollowed-out tree near the very tip of Lake Calenhad. He will know the tree when he sees it._

_To Sten, I leave nothing but a simple, gruff, approving nod. Please see he gets it._

_To Morrigan and her son, I leave a rare staff, carried by Magister Lords and stolen from the elves that they enslaved. It is fit to be wielded by an Old God soul. This is stored at the Spoiled Princess under lock and key. The passcode to retrieve the key from the bartender there is Urthemiel._

_To you, Leliana, I leave my finest pair of silk Orlesian dancing slippers, found under the bed in my room at Denerim Palace._

_There is a letter for Alistair enclosed here as well. May I have one last favour from you, Divine Victoria, if it does not inconvenience you too much? I request that you make the trip to Denerim to deliver the letter to Alistair in person so that neither of you are alone._

_Please, if there is anything I would ever want to leave him with… please ensure that he knows that I have always, and will always, love him, and that I will always be with him._

_And please remember that I will always be with you._

_Always,_

_Joanna ~~Amell, Warden-Commander of Ferelden~~_


	21. Alistair Theirin, Lonely King of Ferelden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _He's crazy from the pain  
>  And can't get hurt again  
> And if he ever falls  
> I'd feel sorry for us all_
> 
> _And you know the difference it makes  
>  And you know all that it takes  
> Is love, so he won't break  
> He won't break_
> 
> \- from "So He Won't Break" by The Black Keys

The wind rushes through his hair, stinging his face as he gallops away from Denerim. He is unsure as to where he is going exactly; he just knows that he needs to get away. He needs to be alone.

The surprise visit from Leliana should have clued him in – her demeanor was odd, but she’d handed him an envelope, Joanna's handwriting upon said envelope giving him hope beyond all reason that Leliana’s arrival only preceded Joanna’s own. But upon opening the letter...

The tears fall from his eyes and he involuntarily lets out an agonized sob. _No!_

He’d fallen to the floor in a daze, feeling as if he’d been drugged or beaten so badly that he couldn’t focus. Vomit swirled in his mouth, and he threw up… wait, did he? Yes, yes, he did: right there on the stone floor of his study. He had felt the hands on him and the worried eyes upon him; the cloying, worried cries of, “Alistair! Alistair! My king! Are you all right?” only infuriating him.

So he’d stood up in a rage and pushed aside everyone – including Divine Victoria, which he was pretty sure was close to blasphemy – and ran for the stables, his mind confused and broken and foggy. He must have seemed drunk, as the stableman didn’t even want to give him his horse, but Alistair had screamed at him for the very first time and hoped on the horse anyways, taking off and flying over the gate that hadn’t had a chance to be open. He’d heard Eamon’s voice call out behind him, but he hadn’t looked back.

He’d wanted to run the first time she’d left him and then many, many times after that, but he’d always stayed. He’d done it because he loved his country and his people; the same people who had rioted against him on more than one occasion, who had given him the nickname The Lonely King, and who had so little faith in him that they’d protested a small raise in taxes more than they’d protested his now publicly-known affair with a mage.

But, he supposes, he doesn’t have to worry about that any longer.

The grief is all-consuming, and he stares up at the forest he was quickly approaching. He’d let his horse go, and now the mare had her ears back and was now at a full gallop towards the forest instead of the canter she was at before. If she could run straight into the forest and he could fall off into a tree, was she going fast enough to kill him?

An evil smile appears on his face, and then he jolts back to reality, his eyes focusing and his mind finally clearing. He pulls back on the reins and calms the mare, grateful as she responds immediately to him, slowly to a trot and then a walk, her body sweating beneath him and her nostrils flaring as she fights to catch her breath. As soon as she stops, Alistair dismounts quickly and breaks into a run, hearing his mare keeping up behind him, but he runs and runs until he reaches the cliff overlooking the city and stops abruptly. The horse walks up behind him, still breathing heavily, and rests her head over his shoulder as if she is watching the city below and comforting him, too.

Alistair leans against her, burying his face in her mane, and begins to scream, stomping his feet and shouting profanities and jibberish into her fur, but she just stands there, allowing him to grieve and crumble and break.

And then he sits. He crumples into a heap at her feet, leaning against her front legs and trying to make out the city, blurry and distorted by his tears. Dusk is falling quickly, and his people are beginning to go about their evening rituals, the city dotted in yellow circles as the lamplighter walks through town, not knowing that their king is looking over them, broken and lost, nor that their Hero is gone.

It is close to dawn when Alistair mounts his horse again and makes his way back into Denerim. For his people, it will be a morning just like the last, but for Alistair, it is a morning that he will always want to, but ultimately never, forget.

**************

Leliana picks up the letter where Alistair had dropped it, stepping gingerly over his vomit and rubbing the spot on her hip where she’d landed after he’d pushed her.

“Are you all right, Divine Victoria?” Teagan asks her timidly, touching her arm gently as he gives her a worried look.

“Yes, yes,” Leliana answers dismissively, her tone unintentionally rude. She is distracted: she hasn’t seen the letter Joanna has left for Alistair, and her curiosity is becoming too much for her to bear. She reads through the letter, her eyes stopping near the middle where she assumes Alistair’s had:

_Alistair,_

_I love you._

_First, I want you to know that leaving you the first time was my choice. This time, however, it is not. I will always, always be with you. I made a promise._

_Now, the hard part:_

_If you are reading this, then I am dead._


	22. Back in Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And we sang dirges in the dark  
>  The day the music died._
> 
> \- from "American Pie" by Don MacLean

"Alistair," Eamon says gently, his voice wavering, "you cannot shirk your royal duties. I am… I am sorry about Joanna, but…"

"Teagan has been handling the nobility admirably," Alistair replies dully.

"He has," Eamon agrees, a touch of surprise and pride in his voice, "But it is not his job."

"Perhaps it should be."

Eamon takes a sharp inhale of breath and then exhales slowly. _Maker's Breath!_ How many times must he have this conversation with the lad?

"Alistair, no. Joanna would not want her death to break you. Was it not why she kept away from you after the Blight? Her wish was always that you would continue being the king, with or without her, and now you must honour those wishes," Leliana interjects.

He gives her a horrid, hateful look, and they all take a step back as if they’d been shot. He knows how he must look: three days without sleep, food, or doing much of anything. He has sat on his bed, the bed he shared with her, knowing that it would always be empty: her side would never be touched again.

“What do we tell the public? The nobility?” Eamon cautiously asks, and Alistair can feel his uncle’s worried eyes searching his face. For a minute, he detests them all.

“We tell them nothing,” Alistair commands immediately, “Not until we know for sure.”

He can see Leliana and Eamon trade glances over his head, but he ignores them.

“Alistair...” Leliana begins to say, but he cuts her off.

“They will want a ceremony: a funeral. Are we truly prepared for that? Are _you_ prepared for that, Divine Victoria?” he snaps.

Leliana shoots him a glare, her Divine façade fading quickly. She is formidable. “Do not think that you are the only feeling the weight of Joanna’s loss, Your _Majesty_. We are all lesser now, but the only way that we can even begin to think about moving on from this is if we work together.”

He is silent.

Gently, she murmurs, “Eamon’s right; Joanna wouldn’t want this to destroy you.”

“Leliana,” Alistair says through his gritted teeth, turning towards the Divine in an almost menacing fashion.

But, true to form, Leliana does not back down. He can see her own grief written plainly across her face, but there is sympathy there, too.

“Alistair,” she replies, her bard eyes searching his face.

“The letter,” he chokes, “why did you have it? Why didn’t it come directly to me?”

Leliana takes a deep breath and, suddenly, she is no longer a bard, a spymaster, or Divine Victoria. She is the timid lay sister from Lothering that forced herself into their quest; the one who was so intimidated and enraptured with Joanna that she followed her about constantly for the first three months. Right now, Alistair hates to admit it, but Leliana’s presence is immensely comforting.

She takes a deep breath. “When she was leaving Soldier’s Peak, she sent a bird to me. She told me where she was going and why, but she left instructions.”

“For what.”

“For Baron Plucky… uh… for another bird,” Leliana bumbles, “He would be carrying to letter to you. If she hadn’t made it back from beyond the Anderfels within three weeks, he was to come to me and I was to come to deliver that letter to you. In person.”

Alistair gulps down more vomit.

Leliana looks close to tears. “I… grieved her when he dropped off the letter. I expected it to be good news, but I was so caught up with my own duties that I failed to realize the timing of his arrival. And then I journeyed here, just as she wished. It broke me to have to give it to you, but it needed to be done.”

“Isn’t that how it always goes,” Alistair snorts sarcastically, “We’ve always done what needed to be done. How much blood is on our hands because we’ve done ‘what needed to be done’? Including Joanna’s.”

Divine Victoria is back, and he watches her as she says a prayer under her breath quickly. She does not answer him, but he can see the guilt and grief written plainly in her eyes. He remembers that she was the Left Hand of the Divine before she actually _became_ Divine, and feels his own sense of guilt at asking her such a question, for it is the Left Hand that stretches out. It is the Left Hand that carries the dagger and deals with the blood.

“We both have red on our ledgers,” Leliana murmurs as she walks towards the door, “But we must not let it define us.”

******

Joanna moans and turns to her side, wincing at the sharp pain that shoots through her leg at the movement. She looks down at her calf and notices that a large wound has been cleaned and stitched, and it looks as though a salve has been applied to it. 

Suddenly, she becomes aware of her surroundings: she is laying on an animal-skin cot in a wooden hut, very much like what she had seen of the Avvar when she'd visited the Frostbacks several years back. The thatched roof is thick and blocks out the sunlight, but the light streams through cracked wooden shutters in the three windows punched into the sides of the circular hut. A table and chairs sits in the middle of the hut near an empty fireplace, and fruits and vegetables, some Joanna has never seen the likes of, are spread across a preparatory table near a pile of crude, clay dishes. 

She sits up slowly and allows the scene to sink in as an unfamiliar bird shrieks in the distance. Her heart beats fast as her eyes dart around the room and she realizes that she is alone.

_Where is Zevran?_

She can’t even remember what happened: they’d been three days past the Pass when… they’d been attacked? Ambushed? It all seems like a hazy dream… and now she is here. Wherever ‘here’ is.

Suddenly, the door to the hut begins to creak open, and Joanna panics. She feels the icy magic surge in her fingers, but it overwhelms her and she grows lightheaded immediately. All she can do now is wait to see who it is.

The figure is blacked out at first as the door allows bright, summery light into the hut. The first thing she can see is the bowl of brightly coloured fruits in the person's hand, and then a pair of pointed ears. The person shuts the door behind them, humming a familiar tune to themselves, and walks over to set the bowl down on the table, seemingly not noticing that Joanna is awake.

Joanna takes a minute to take the person in: an elf, female, thin as most elves are, but with full, rosy cheeks and an intricate vallislin she hasn't seen before. Thick, blond hair falls down the woman's back in ringlets, and Joanna was certain she saw a brief flash of the woman's dark brown eyes. The woman looks maybe ten years older than Joanna, and, though Joanna is certain she has never seen the woman before in her life, she feels like there is something similar about them. Perhaps... no, it couldn't be.

"H-hello?" Joanna squeaks, embarrassed by the frailty in her voice. 

The elven woman jumps and then turns to face Joanna, a broad smile on her face. 

"You're awake!" she exclaims excitedly, closing the gap between them briskly. The woman kneels at Joanna's side and immediately checks the wound in her leg. She smiles up at Joanna. "This salve is a miracle worker. I'm not mage, but this is pretty damn close to as healed as you can get without magic."

Joanna is stunned. "Wha-? Who... where...?"

The elven woman chuckles and helps Joanna to sit upright. "I'll make lunch, get some food in you, and I'll explain everything. You must be starving."

"I am, but..."

“Your friend should be back with some ram meat. He needs his bandages changed as well.”

“My… friend? Zevran?”

“Yes.”

“But…”

"I've been force feeding you soups and mashed fruits the past week that you've been unconscious. But it seems we were blessed by Andruil herself this morning in the form of a ram. The meat's been smoking outside for a few hours, and your friend will bring it in when it’s ready. It shouldn't be long."

****

Joanna sits at the table as the elf serves her a steaming plate of food, listening to Zevran chat with the woman as if they were old friends, and can't help but sit there in stunned silence.

Zevran had been so relieved to see that Joanna was all right, that he’d planted a wet kiss on her lips and hugged her so tightly her stitches had come open. The elf woman had scolded him and then helped Joanna back to bed, stitched her up, and Zevran had filled her in on what had happened to the two of them.

They’d been ambushed, he’d told her, by strange elves with crimson facial tattoos unlike any he’d ever seen. He hadn’t even been sure they could be called vallislin. They’d appeared from the trees, pouncing like wild cats onto the back of Joanna’s horse, causing him to rear up and throw her. She’d landed on the ground and, with the momentum, rolled a few feet into a tree root sticking from the dirt and hit her head, knocking her unconscious immediately. Zevran had been behind her and had gone into stealth immediately, watching as the elves looked her over, speaking among themselves in a language he hadn’t recognized. As they were beginning to load her bruised and battered body onto the back of one of their animals that resembled a bronto, Zevran had tried to ambush them, but they’d been too quick for him.

“The next thing I know, I am waking up in this humble abode with stitches in my face and an ache in my back!” he’d told her in only the flamboyant way Zevran could. “Two weeks later.”

Joanna had, accordingly to Zevran, woken up about a week after that.

Now she waits for the elf to serve Zevran and herself and sit opposite of Joanna, and then she picks up her fork and dives into the food, her stomach somersaulting with hunger. The food is delicious and unlike anything she's ever tasted, even from the palace kitchens in Denerim. The meat melts in her mouth, and the vegetables are crisp and flavourful. She greedily gobbles it up until the elf clears her throat, "So, what's a Grey Warden doing outside of Thedas?"

Zevran chuckles to himself.

"I... wait, what? How did you know? Did Zevran tell you?"

The elf shakes her head. "I can sense the taint in your blood."

It hits Joanna then. "You-you're a Warden too?"

The elf laughs, "I was. Until they exiled me. That was... what, fifteen years ago now? In any case, my name's Auzrial."

"I... I don't understand," Joanna stammers.

Auzrial sighs deeply and places her cutlery down on the table gently, leaning on her elbows and linking her hands in front of her face. "About fifteen years ago, I went to the commanders at Weisshaupt and told them that I believed that we would only find a cure for the Calling if we went outside of Thedas: beyond the seas, the mountains, the deserts... they laughed at me. And then they exiled me."

"There must be more to it," Zevran murmurs between bites.

"There is," Auzrial nods sadly, but she shakes her head and a grin appears on her face. "I would love to see their faces now."

"You found a cure?" Joanna shrieks without meaning to.

"No, but I found a way to delay it. A flower with..."

"A blue centre and yellow petals," Joanna finishes her sentence.

"Ah. So that's why you're here."

"Yes."

"Did Weisshaupt send you?"

"No, I'm here on my own accord. A... hunch, if you will. I've been searching for the cure to the Calling for the last twelve years. After the last Blight..."

"Wait, what? The last Blight?" Auzrial looks from Zevran to Joanna rapidly, a confused and disturbed look on her face.

Joanna swallows hard. "The Fifth Blight. It began in Ferelden in 9:31, but we defeated it. I killed the Archdemon."

Auzrial stares at her. "You killed it? But you're still alive."

Zevran chuckles again and sighs, “Oh, my friend. It is quite the tale.”

"It was a small price to pay,” Joanna says, giving Zevran a pointed look, “The soul of the Old God is safe, but the Archdemon died and the darkspawn fled.”

Auzrial looks down at her full plate, seeming to have lost her appetite. “It… uh, seems that I have much to catch up on. Zevran has obviously only told me very little and, if you are willing, I would very much like to know everything I have missed out on.”

Joanna reaches for her water, wincing as the pain radiates up her side, but she grasps the clay mug tightly and takes a deep breath and a sip. “Like Zevran said: it’s quite the tale.”


	23. Close Your Eyes and Think of Ferelden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I don’t want to wait anymore, I’m tired of looking for answers  
>  Take me some place where there’s music and there’s laughter  
> I don’t know if I’m scared of dying but I’m scared of living too fast, too slow  
> Regret, remorse, hold on, oh no, I’ve got to go  
> There’s no starting over, no new beginnings, time races on  
> And you’ve just gotta keep on keeping on_
> 
> \- From “My Silver Lining” by First Aid Kit

Auzrial is stunned, visibly stunned. She slumps forward in her seat and cradles her head in her hands.

“I…” she starts to say, but runs her hands down her face and stops speaking abruptly. 

Joanna shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Retelling her story to Auzrial had been strangely lethargic, but she had felt as if she was retelling someone else’s life-story. Had she really done all of that and lived through it?

 _Barely_ , the voice in her head had scoffed at her.

Joanna smiles to herself now, and, beside her, Zevran chuckles.

Auzrial picks her head up and stares at them. “Something funny?”

“It’s just…” Zevran chuckles again, reaching across the table to squeeze Auzrial’s hands. Joanna gives him a confused look, but he returns it with his usual sly smile. “It sounds so… _unbelievable!_ ”

“Tell me about it,” Auzrial mutters, giving her head a shake, “I didn’t realize that exile could be so…”

“Isolating?” Joanna blurts, “Perhaps it’s better you missed everything.”

“I guess.”

Zevran clears his throat and stands up, “I will allow some time to let things sink in and clean up. Are you done with your dinner, milady?”

Auzrial smirks at him and hands him her glass, “More ale. _Please_.”

He bows at her, and Joanna tilts her head at him with an eyebrow raised, but she is unsurprised when he winks at her and shoots her another grin.

_Sly dog._

There is a strained silence, and Joanna picks at the hangnails on her fingers, her mind racing with flashbacks from the past twelve years; the archdemon has haunted her dreams as of late, and there is a song scratching at the back of her mind with a tune so familiar, but she cannot place how she knows it. She taps her finger on the table absentmindedly, humming at an odd pitch, trying to find the tune of the song.

_A tavern song? Something she’d heard on the road? Orzammar?_

“Your lover is the King of Ferelden?” Auzrial asks more casually than she means to, interrupting Joanna’s thoughts abruptly.

She watches as Joanna’s face transforms from innate sadness to muted panic.

“W… how long have we been here?” Joanna mutters hurriedly.

Zevran returns to the table and hands Auzrial a full flagon of ale. He sits down and blinks heavily and then he stiffens as he murmurs to himself. “Joanna…”

“A few weeks,” Auzrial replies, “Why?”

Joanna looks as if she’ll be ill, and she does not respond, but hangs her head. Auzrial is stunned again as a single tear runs down Joanna’s cheek; she hasn’t known Joanna for more than two days, but Auzrial can sense the immense power and strength within Joanna. She is already impressed by her fellow Warden, although her decision to perform the Dark Ritual before slaying the Archdemon is slightly worrisome, and Auzrial is proud that she can aid on the woman’s quest. It is most noble and, as strained as her relationship with the Wardens is, she is pleased that she can perhaps help to save them.

Zevran answers for Joanna after giving her a worried look, “Joanna left instructions for a raven to be sent to Denerim with notice of her death should we be longer than three weeks. And now the King will think that she’s dead.”

Auzrial stands up suddenly, placing her hands face-down on the table in front of her, and her chair hits the ground violently.

“Auzrial?” Zevran asks tenderly.

“The past is… the past. You have been the only thing that has stood between the end of the world and evil, and now you are the only hope for the future of the Wardens. There is a meadow filled with flowers not far from here.”

“But what about those elves?”

“They do not go to the meadow,” Auzrial answers confidently, “But if they come for us, I will stand against them.”

Zevran tenses visibly and his fists clench. “Auzrial…”

“No,” she commands fiercely, her eyes hard, “I have been staving off the Calling for too long, but I will no longer hide from this. You need to get back to your King, and I need to stop living in the past.”

*******

It takes the trio another week to trek to the flowers meadow and back to Auzrial’s hut, even though they make use of Auzrial’s old plough horse. Though they’d vowed to stay vigilant to watch out for the strange elves, Joanna had noticed that Zevran and Auzrial were more focused on watching each other than their backs. The little touches, the stolen glances, the high-pitched giggles that were much too teenaged for them, and the way that Zevran smiled at her when he thought Auzrial wasn’t looking were much too familiar.

It was like walking alongside her and Alistair, all those years ago.Though this place was drastically different: the trees were like massive ferns, their huge leaves reaching down towards the ground, peppered with odd, yellow fruit that she’d never seen before. Flowers clustered around the lush green grass that spread across the ground like carpet, their petals huge and velvety, and their colours of purple, blue, yellow, red, and white were so incredibly vibrant that she couldn’t stare at them too long. Ivy grew up the trunks of the massive trees that towered over them, their canopies filtering the intense sunlight above them, vines draping so close to their heads that she felt as if she could reach up, grab them, and swing across to their destination. Large, colourful birds with plump, feathered plums sung happily above their heads as they ventured to the meadow, soaring without flapping their wings as if they were powered by anything other than the wing. It was a tropical paradise, it was beautiful, but it wasn’t home. It wasn't Ferelden.

Joanna knew when Alistair was looking at her, even when it was out of the corner of his eye, because she felt as though she was indestructible. It was the only reason she was able to make it through his coronation: she’d felt his eyes on her the whole time and, though his eyes were filled with agony, they were still the same honey-brown pools she’d felt on her back as they’d fought through the Deep Roads, the Brecilian Forest, the Circle Tower, and the road near Redcliffe months ago. Two lights in the darkness, now potentially flickering. Lost. Shadowed.

She would save him. She would save all of them. Honey-brown pools of light would guide her home.

********

At dawn the morning after they returned from the meadow, Joanna is wrapping up the rations Auzrial has generously provided for her trip back to Fate’s Pass, when she smells Zevran’s familiar musk and feels a gentle hand on her shoulder. She closes her eyes softly and sighs heavily: she knows what’s coming next. Turning towards him, she tilts her head and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Zevran.”

"I'm not coming with you," Zevran says, his eyes closed as if he is expecting backlash.

"What?" she asks, but she is not surprised. "You want to stay here?"

"My friend," Zevran says, "I am so very tired of running and assassinating and living in the shadows. The Crows cannot find me here. And Auzrial..." He looks over towards the other elf and smiles with one eyebrow raised. "Well, I think that we will get along just fine."

Joanna gives him a sad look, but then takes his hand from her shoulder and squeezes it gently. 

He smiles at her, blinking heavily, but then straightens up and pats her on the shoulders. "Now, you must go to cure the Calling! Be the dashing hero yet again and save your lover from the jaws of death.”

Joanna smirks and kisses him, “Again.”


	24. Demons of His Own Doing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _How I wish, how I wish you were here  
>  We're just two lost souls  
> Swimming in a fish bowl  
> Year after year  
> Running over the same old ground  
> And how we found  
> The same old fears   
> Wish you were here_
> 
> \- from "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd

Denerim does not mourn, but it wonders.

The King has not been seen outside of the palace in a week, and rumours run rampant that the famous Warden’s Calling is claiming him. To make matters worse, Warden-Commander Amell has not been seen a rumour started in Redcliffe, and the people worry that their saviours have been taken from them.

The chantry is full to bursting.

The minstrels in the taverns sing songs of the Lonely King and his lost love.

The King does not take visitors or permit Landsmeets and has dismissed his servants. The Divine stays by his side, watching as he withers, her own duties falling by the wayside. But, as always, the Chantry persists. She will return to Val Royeaux when she can.

Leliana sleeps on the floor in Alistair’s room and hums _In Uthenera_ under her breath as a pseudo-lullaby until they both fall asleep.

In the courtyard, the last rose on the bush turns black and dies.


	25. Ghosts That We Knew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Anything plain can be lovely, anything loved can be lost  
>  Maybe I lost my direction, what if our love is the cost?  
> Anyone perfect must be lying, anything easy has its cost  
> Anyone plain can be lovely, anyone loved can be lost_
> 
> _What if I lost my direction? What if I lost sense of time?  
>  What if I nursed this infection? Maybe the worst is behind._
> 
> \- from "Falling For the First Time" by the Barenaked Ladies

Avernus emerges from the tower for the first time in a decade when he hears that Joanna has been spotted walking up the path towards Soldier’s Peak, and he is waiting for her eagerly when she finally passes the threshold into the courtyard.

Levi rolls his eyes towards Avernus on the steps as Joanna passes him, grumbling something about, “That damn mage scaring the children.”

Avernus hurries her into his study and grabs the flowers from her hand, muttering one word as he then shoos her from his tower. It is two days before she is summoned back, and she sleeps through it all.

He resembles an excited toddler as she stumbles groggily into his tower. She has slept, but the song and the nightmares have been so loud in her head.

"It is a potion and spell combination that will essentially reverse the Blight in your bodies. The spell must be performed exactly as it is written and the potion must be consumed within twelve hours of mixing," Avernus tells her, "it will be a most unpleasant journey, and it will be as tedious as shaky hands threading a needle, but it will draw the taint from your blood and make you whole again."

" _Unpleasant_?"

"You remember what you felt during the Joining?"

Joanna nods, shuddering.

Avernus chuckles ironically, "This will be worse. Your blood may feel as if it boils within you. You will become sick. You will crawl on your knees and beg for mercy to the invisible force taking from you what makes you a Warden, and then you will wake up two morns after you first drank the potion and you will have been cleansed."

"Can it kill us?"

"Only if you allow it to."

"And how do I know that this will work?" Joanna asks, staring at the recipe and spell instructions in her hand. Several flasks of the potion sit on the table in front of her. “This only took you two days.”

Avernus gives her a knowing look. "Because I will be the first to try."

She takes a step back and shakes her head. "But..."

"I have been dead a long time," Avernus interrupts softly, "Removing the taint from my blood to allow me even a brief moment of living without the Blight before I go to the Maker is all I've ever wanted. It's all I've been searching for. And if I can die knowing that I, a mage, saved the Wardens... well, then I can go to the Maker proudly and without regret."

“You said that it will only kill us if we allow it to, but…” she meets his eyes, “what about you?”

“Perhaps it is my time,” the old mage sighs, “I have been hearing Death knocking at my door for many years. Perhaps the time has come to let him in.”

...

Joanna sits by Avernus's bedside, listening as Freya reads the Chant aloud to bless his journey to the other side. She wonders if Avernus' spirit will leave and be at rest, or if he will still feel as if his work is not done. She cannot imagine what it would mean to finally be at peace when your whole life you were running full speed towards one, single goal. She imagines she would simply collapse in on herself.

Upon taking the Cure, Avernus had cried out in terrible pain, retching around with clawed fingers like a man possessed, the blood pulsing in his neck as if his veins were going to pop out of his head, and then he’d collapsed in an unmoving heap on the floor. They’d rushed to lay him on the bed, and he’d awoken with a gasp two days afterward, similar to the gasp that had caught in Joanna’s face at his appearance. His sunken skin had seemed as if it had been buffed, plumped, and injected with colour, and he no longer resembled one of the living dead but the mage from the visions she’d experienced the first time she’d come to Soldier’s Peak with Levi.

“I… feel myself again,” he’d said to them in a strong voice, before smiling and nodding at Joanna in particular, and then laying back and closing his eyes. He hadn’t risen again.

Now, Joanna does not listen to the chant - she never has. It is not that she doesn't believe in  _something_ , it's just that the words have never spoken to her the way they do to most. So, her mind meanders, and she absentmindedly strokes the soft, leathery skin of Avernus' hand beneath her thumb. It is obviously comforting to the old mage, and she feels him relax beneath her touch.

Her mind flicks back to First Enchanter Irving. She still feels the weight of his loss, and writing the letters to inform Fiona and he Chantry of his loss afterwards was more agonizing than she'd expected. 

Suddenly, Joanna stiffens in panic. _Letters_... she hasn't sent any since she'd returned to Ferelden. Not a _single_ note to Alistair to let him know that she was alive. Not a quick bird to Leliana. Zevran had asked Joanna to relay his intention to stay with Auzrial in person lest the Crows intercept her messages, and she'd been so focused on returning to Soldier's Peak with all haste that she hadn't even  _thought_  about...

_Alistair._

His name sticks like old honey on her lips, shame courses through her veins, and vomit swells in her throat. Unfortunately, she realizes, this behaviour is not unlike her. The habit of travelling alone and hiding for the last ten years, coupled with her unwavering focus to cure the taint, has made her a terrible friend, a horrid lover, and an incredible Warden. 

Avernus coughs and it brings her back to the present moment, though she vows to write a letter to Alistair and Leliana as soon as she possibly can. She will wait to tell them both of the cure until she is with them in person. First, they both need to know that she is alive.

Freya stops reading the Chant and then bows her head, muttering softly under her breath. She turns and leaves the tower, Levi and Mikhael bowing their own heads, nodding at Joanna, and following. Avernus does not seem to notice their departure.

As Avernus' breath grows more and more laboured, Joanna loosens her grip on his hand, but continues to hold it. No one should have to die alone. Perhaps she can take his mind off of his suffering, though it won't be long now. Just like she did with First Enchanter Irving, Joanna vows to stay with Avernus until he no longer needs her, and, though the ancient Warden would never admit it, she knows that he needs her there with him in his final minutes.

"Tell me, Avernus," she muses, half to herself, and half to him.

He turns his head to look at her, his chest heaving with each breath and nods slowly, his eyes questioning. 

"Fate... when she came to you in the Fade: what did she look like?"

Avernus' breathing suddenly becomes less heavy and laboured, and he closes his eyes and smiles as he turns his face from her. With his last breath, he replies, "A voice as deep as an ocean. Hair as white as the clouds. Eyes as yellow as the sunrise."

And, as he dies, Joanna shakes with realization. Another name sticks on her lips, a name she has not spoken for many years:

 _Flemeth_. 

*****

We return to Denerim, where Leliana is fingering the messaging crystal she had received from Dorian after her coronation as Divine. The Inquisitor’s voice rings through Alistair’s empty study as Leliana paces back and forth through the room.

"He has refused to plan a funeral. He has outright refused!"

_"How certain are you that she is dead?"_

Leliana drags a hand through her hair as she speaks back into the crystal, her voice harried and high, "Logically? 100%. Intuitively... I don't know. I just... I feel as if the world would feel heavier without her, and it doesn't."

The Inquisitor pauses and sighs deeply, _"Perhaps King Alistair feels the same way?"_

Leliana pauses herself, and considers it. She had been so frustrated at Alistair refusing to even entertain the idea of a funeral or announcing Joanna's death to the public; she hated that he refused to accept it, but now she realizes that she has been a horrible hypocrite: she hasn't accepted Joanna's death, either.

"As always, Jane, you are right."

Leliana can almost hear Jane smile. _"Would you mind repeating that for Cullen when he gets here?"_

"How is everyone?" Leliana asks longingly. She misses it, all of it, and has often found herself wishing she was still the Inquisition's spymaster.

Jane sounds content, _"Everyone is fine. To be honest, I'm surprised that most have stayed, but I think it just attests to how strong the Inquisition is. We've been closing the remaining Rifts and clearing out the rest of the Red Templars, and we're set to host Celene for a state visit next month."_

"And Harding? Charter?"

_"They are doing an admirable job."_

"But?"

_"The only complaint I have is that neither of them are you."_

Leliana smiles fondly. "I miss you, too."

 _"You have more important matters to deal with, Divine Victoria,"_ Jane says, but sounds lamentable.

"But I am always here for you," Leliana asserts, "Though I have still heard nothing of Solas."

 _"Neither have I,"_ Jane whispers, _"I have searched the Fade and found nothing. We will keep looking."_ Her voice switches to a normal volume as she announces, _"Cullen, Josephine, and Charter have arrived. I must go."_

"Give everyone my love."

" _Of course. Take care of yourself. We'll talk again - same time next week?"_

"Yes. Farewell."

_"Until next time."_

As the crystal stops glowing, Leliana feels the tears well up in her eyes. She has so much to be grateful for, and she knows it: she  _is_  grateful, but there is one thing that is missing. There is a new scar, a new blind spot... a new hole that Joanna's death has created. Another life lost to the void of a good deed, or a noble errand: a passionate sacrifice trying to save the life of the man she loved. 

And, though Leliana knows that she should always turn to her faith and believe that the Maker always has a plan, for one silent moment, she doubts. 


	26. Not All Who Wander Are Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Be true or be gone  
>  You’re only fooling yourself  
> Open hand or not  
> You are holding out  
> But there is no light that you can’t live in  
> Tear it apart  
> Your old confession made in the dark  
> Now every hour, change of heart  
> You’re running away  
> But the shadow is yours_
> 
>  
> 
> \- from "Tall Tall Shadow" by Basia Bulat

Joanna has stayed in Soldier’s Peak to watch Avernus be afforded a proper pyre, and she is sitting in for one last dinner with Levi and Freya before she leaves at dawn.

Levi sets a plate down in front of her with a smile. "Here you are, Warden-Commander. Fresh from the stove."

"Thank you, Levi," she replies warmly, savouring the smell of the expertly-cooked stew. She scolds herself for wishing it was the same mouth-wateringly tasty beef stew from the kitchens at the castle in Denerim, but she takes a bite and decides this will be just fine.

"I hope you don't mind, Warden-Commander, but we're expecting that the merchants that were here earlier today to join us for supper," Levi announces, much to his wife's chagrin.

"Ugh, bunch of gossips, that lot," Freya grumbles to herself, "Best sit where the lighting is poor, my lady. If they knew it were you, they'd never leave you alone."

"Oh, Freya," Levi chuckles, "Warden-Commander Amell won't be staying much longer; she found what she needed. Isn't that right, Commander?"

Joanna gives him a bright smile. "Yes, Levi, that's right. Thank you for all of your hospitality."

"It's no trouble, really. You're welcome here anytime, my lady. You're going to save the king and the rest of the Wardens, and that makes you like family in my book. Shame ‘bout Avernus, but I guess he did what he set out to do. In death, that’s all you can ask."

Joanna chuckles and dips her spoon into the stew, but is startled and almost flings her spoonful across the room as the door bursts open and two chubby, chortling men walk in.

Freya whips her head around at Joanna and gives her a pointed look, and Joanna quickly slips her hood over her head to disguise herself, slinking to the far corner of the table.

"We haven't missed dinner yet, 'ave we?" one of the men asks loudly. He has a massive, bushy moustache that moves dramatically each time he speaks. "Smells delicious, Mrs. Dryden, if I do say so meself."

Freya gives him a strained smile. "Please, gents, sit. There's plenty to go around."

The merchants sit at the table, and the louder one jumps as he sees Joanna in the shadows. "Oye! I beg your pardon; we did not realize you had another guest."

"No pardon needed," Levi speaks up, "Our guest here is a traveling hunter come all the way from the Frostbacks. Sold all her hides to my brother just this morning, she did. She, uh, doesn't say much."

"You Avvar, then?" the other merchant asks in Joanna's direction.

She keeps her head down but nods, her eyes on her stew.

"Ah, we don't see many Avvar in these parts. Heading to Denerim, I assume?"

She nods again, keeping her eyes trained on the food in front of her.

"Never met an Avvar, meself," Moustache says, "But heard 'bout them trading in the larger cities. We is textile merchants, heading up to Denerim to try to sell some silk and lace to the king's tailors. Heard King Alistair might be needin' some for a weddin' earlier, but now we’s heard that them’s up in Denerim is preparin’ for a funeral."

Joanna stiffens, and she can feel Levi's eyes on her. 

"W-what are you on about?" Levi asks, his voice uncertain. His eyes flick between the merchant and Joanna worriedly.

"Don't tell me you 'aven't heard them rumours comin’ outta Denerim. There was a big Landsmeetin' about the king's lover: that apostate that saved us all awhile back. Rumours say that they're going to make the witch a queen," Moustache chuckles, "Trouble is, no one's seen her in months, and the Lonely King ain’t been seen outside the Palace either. Them’s up there think she’s dead.”

Joanna stiffens and closes her eyes. She knew that Alistair would know the truth about her soon, but it oddly brought her no comfort.

The other merchant seems offended. "You can't call her a 'witch'; she's the Hero of Ferelden. And those are just rumours."

"How d'ya know that, Rake? Thems in the Chantry's got that Divine Victoria that fought in the Blight with the King and the Hero, and she's gone and given them mages freedom! Means the witch can be queen now," Moustache gulps down a spoonful of stew and wipes his mouth savagely, "If she ever turns up."

Freya sets her own bowl of stew down in front of her violently and says in a strained voice, "We will not speak of the king and the woman who saved us all from the Blight in such a manner. Not at this table."

"Awe, I'm rightly sorry, Mrs. Dryden."

The other merchant bows his head and says quietly, "Magic will never rule over man."

Levi gets up abruptly and brings over fresh milk to fill the glasses on the table. He gets to her, but Joanna waves him away: she's lost her appetite.

"Look, I like thems at the castle, and the King. He's a good sort, ya know? Just a bleedin' shame that thems call him the 'Lonely King', ya know? Maybe he likes them men."

Joanna smirks.

The quiet merchant sighs dramatically, "You just said that his lover is the Hero of Ferelden.  _She_  is not a man."

"Aye, but that could be a ruse. You know how them nobility are. Thems the ones who started calling him the Lonely King, after all."

Freya chokes on her stew. "I beg your pardon?"

"Aye, thems in the bannorn. They is all 'bout security and the legacy of our nation, ya know. Rumour has it they started calling him that to inspire him to settle down. Pop outta few rugrats," Moustache snorts, "Lotta good that did 'im."

"What would the bannorn know of it?" Joanna snaps, lowering her voice. She keeps her face hidden.

"Oye! She speaks! Tell me, little lady, even though youse is Avvar, wouldn't you feel better if the king were married and with a couple a wee heirs runnin' around? Ferelden don't need any more drama or hardship, no sir. Ferelden needs security. Stability. And that starts with the king."

Freya is becoming more and more frustrated, and she eventually stands from her chair and begins to clear her plate and Joanna's. "My lady," Freya mumbles, "Shall we make our way back to you room? I can prepare your bath."

Joanna stands herself and follows Freya towards her quarters, watching as Freya's fists clenched and unclench as she walks. When they reach the door, Freya turns to Joanna and grasps her hands, her eyes wide and desperate.

“Warden-Commander,” Freya breathes, her voice shaking along with her hands. “Please don’t take what those terrible men said back there. They’ve got no idea what they talking about.”

Joanna gives her a timid smile. “I try not to take anything anyone says about me personally.”

“But I saw the look in your eyes, Lady Amell. I saw the doubt. You must not listen to them: there will always be gossip.”

“You have no idea,” Joanna scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“Please, Commander, you are the only thing that gives me hope for Ferelden. After what happened with Corypheus and the Breach, the revolts against the Divine, and everything that you’ve been through… I know that it is only by the grace of the Maker and… well, _you_ , milady, that Ferelden made it out by the skin of our teeth. I know that I am not in a position to beg you to change your life, but as a lowly merchant’s wife… I must beg you to please return to Denerim. Return to our king.”

Joanna gives her a sad look, swallowing hard.

Freya takes a step back and releases Joanna’s hands, her teeth clenched and her eyes dull. “I… I’ve overstepped me bounds. I am sorry, milady. I’ll return with your bathwater.”

“No, Freya, it’s all right. I… appreciate the input.”

“They weren’t wrong about one thing, Commander,” Freya says softly, her eyes not leaving the floor, “Stability and security starts with the king, but our king would be nothing without _you_.”

****

Joanna stands at the crossroads, her pack heavy with Avernus’ writings and the tools that would bring about the Cure; the future of the Wardens was in her possession. Once again, she held the fate of living beings in her hands, including the fate of the man that she loves more than anything.

She is the catalyst, and she knows it.

_Ferelden don't need any more drama or hardship, no sir. Ferelden needs security. Stability. And that starts with the king._

She hates that Moustache’s voice is in her head, stirring up the pot of doubt that has been stewing inside of her since that blasted merchant arrived at the Peak. Security. Stability. Those words are attractive, reasonable, and… well, _attainable_. She knows that Alistair could bring security, stability, prosperity, peace, and even more to Ferelden, especially without the weight of The Calling upon him.

 _You are the catalyst_. A spark in a powder keg. She is the wave that washes through the village, and though she is clean and cool and cleansing, she leaves only destruction and turmoil in her wake. She is the tornado forming in the calm farmer’s field.

She is the catalyst, and she knows it.

Denerim lies one way, and Weisshaupt the other. Joanna stands there for a few minutes, her head pounding, and then she takes the path that will guide her to where she needs to be. 


	27. The Way It Should Have Been

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I will be silent and wait for you  
>  My heart will be quiet as I wait for you  
> Only one thing is required  
> To be sitting at your feet  
> And the more that I am near you  
> The more the world just seems so plain_
> 
> \- From “I Will Be Silent” by Over the Ocean

Joanna wakes in an unexpected place and she is instantly on edge: something is not right. The bed is too soft to be her bedroll, the air is too crisp and without the smell of her campfire, and she feels… _clean._ As Joanna opens her eyes, she recognizes the bed and the smell of fresh linen and knows that she is supposed to be at the Palace in Denerim, but she went to sleep last night in camp and now she is waking up in...

_The Fade._

She groans and sits up, searching the room for any sign of the spirit or demon that must be trying to trick her. "Show yourself!" Joanna commands, her voice groggy with sleep, "I have no time or patience for this trickery."

A soft, cackling laughter fills the room. "Trickery it may be, but I want nothing from you, pet. I simply want to show you what your life should have been."

“ _Should_ have been?”

“Life is a fickle thing, pet. Often it is the luck of the draw, sometimes it is planned, but other times it is wrenched from the talons of time and thrown into the tornado of chance.”

“Poetic,” Joanna says snidely, “Get to the point.”

“What if I told you that you were never meant to be an Amell? What if I told you that you were supposed to be something _more_?”

Joanna is silent.

“I can show you what was supposed to be; I can show you what you could have had. What could be…”

 _A desire demon_ : she should have known. Joanna's jaw clenches. "Stop this now, demon, before I make you."

Another laugh from the demon, "When you wake up in your bedroll on the ground in the morning, you will thank me for this."

Joanna opens her mouth to protest, but the door swings open to one of Alistair's elven chambermaids. 

"Oh, Your Majesty! I'm so sorry; I didn't realize that you were still here," the woman blunders.

Joanna gives her a confused look, "W-what?"

The elf bows her head and sighs, "Please forgive me, my queen. I didn't expect you to still be asleep. Are you feeling well?"

Joanna blinks at her slowly, but does not answer. It is beginning to dawn on her what is happening, and she looks around the royal bedroom as she gathers her thoughts. It is the same as what she remembers, except for one crucial detail: the wall space above that fireplace where there is usually a painting of a rose now has a portrait hanging there. It is of her, seated, a crown upon her head and a sceptre in her left hand. Behind to her right her stands Alistair, the Crown of Ferelden on his head as she's seen in portraits of him before, his hand on his sword hilt and the other placed upon her shoulder. And, standing below him, is a child. A small crown is placed upon blond hair the same colour as Alistair's, and there is a mischievous look in the child's green eyes. They are the same as Joanna's. The little boy's hand rests upon Joanna's lap, with her right hand gently resting upon it, and it only dawns on her then that the child is her son.

"M-my lady?" the elf stutters, bringing her out of her stupor. "Your brother and the King are awaiting your presence in the King's study. Do you need assistance getting ready?"

"My brother?"

"Teyrn Cousland arrived yesterday evening."

 _Fergus Cousland_? 

"N-no, I'm fine. Leave me," Joanna murmurs, pulling herself out of bed. She walks to the portrait and her fingers hover above her son's face, and then over hers; so serene, so calm, so confident.

"Why the lies?" she asks aloud, "Fergus Cousland is an only child, and you've made me his sister. You must know I see through you."

“Thirty-two years ago, the Couslands were struck with a personal tragedy: Teyrna Eleanor Cousland suffered a miscarriage. The soul of that child needed a body, and Revka Amell gave birth at the same time to a child’s body that needed a soul.”

“You’re _lying_!”

The demon sighs dramatically, "Tsk tsk, Joanna, don't you _listen_? I'm not here to trick you: I'm simply here to treat you. To show you the life that was meant for you."

"I am an _Amell_."

“Truly? How certain are you that you were not meant to be someone else? You were meant to be Joanna Cousland, youngest child of the late Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, sister to Teyrn Fergus Cousland, wife to Alistair and mother to Benjamin,  _Queen_  of Ferelden," the demon announces as if they were at court, but the tone of voice is mocking, "This is the life you _want_. The life you should have lived."

Joanna ignores the demon’s last words. "Benjamin?"

"The boy in that portrait: your son. The Crown Prince of Ferelden, the sole heir to the throne... the only hope that lies in carrying the Theirin bloodline. He's seven," the demon answers, the mocking tone turning to something unexpected: something soft. 

Joanna clenched her fists. "I will not put up with this illusion any more, I..." 

"Wait!" the demon screeches. "Before you doing anything rash, know this: I did not fabricate your son in this dream. He just simply _existed_ ; it was most unexpected."

"What's your point?" Joanna snaps.

"I am a desire demon: I have done this before," the demon seethes, "But this... this is strange. His spirit is already in the Fade. Do you remember what I said about life being fickle? A human soul cannot exist in limbo without being corrupted, but his soul has remained. _Without_ corruption.”

Joanna hesitates.

“You should meet him,” the desire demon purrs, and Joanna clenches her teeth again. She hates temptation, especially when it is presented by a demon.

“Now why would you want me to do that?”

“I’ll admit, my pet, it is as much for myself as it is for you. He is an unknown entity and I must know why he is here.”

“And if I refuse?”

The demon cackles again, “I have seen you before, Joanna. Tell me: has curiosity _ever_ killed a mage before?”

Temptation. Again.

“That’s what I thought,” the demon coos softly, “Shall we?"

*********

As she steps out of her room, she notices that the castle is incredibly busy, but it stills the minute the chambermaids notice she is present. They stand at attention, bowing to her with full arms of linens. She hates it.

“Please, at ease. Go about your business as usual,” she says gently.

They stare at her, their pupils dilating with fear, but they remain still and silent, clutching their linens tighter. She gives up, smiles apologetically, and then walks towards the dining room. As she begins to descend the stairs, she hears the chambermaids titter nervously behind her.

“She’s so beautiful!”

Joanna walks through the castle as if she is walking on eggshells, her hands outstretched at her sides as if she is afraid that she’ll touch something and it will break.

 _Tell me: has curiosity_ ever _killed a mage before?_

She hears voices coming from the main hall to her right, and she hesitantly opens the wooden door. Standing in the middle of the brightly-adorned, bannered hall is

Fergus smiles up at her, and Alistair lights up, his honey-brown eyes seeming to illuminate the room. Even though she knows that this is just the Fade, she wants to drop to her knees in relief at the sight of him.

“My love,” Alistair says warmly, sweeping her into his arms in a sweet kiss. She wants to return it, but she stiffens, knowing that he is not what he seems. Fade-Alistair does not seem to notice her hesitation.

Fergus is next, sweeping her up in a hug. “Sister, it is so good to see you. I look forward to speaking to your proposal in the Landsmeet this afternoon.”

She gives him a confused look. “The Landsmeet? Teryn Cousland…”

Fade-Fergus chortles, “No need to be so formal, dear Sister! I assume that you’ll be there today, and then off to your regular tea and cakes with Bann Alfstanna?”

“Tea and cakes?” Joanna laughs in his face, “I’m sure that I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Other than tea and cakes?” Fade-Alistair asks earnestly, “Darling, you must be referring to taking care of our son.”

“No,” Joanna asserts, “I am Warden-Commander.”

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore, love,” Fade-Alistair coos, “You’re not a Warden anymore. You’re Queen. Your worries are worth nothing here.”

She stares him down and is about to confront him, calling out the desire demon to end this charade, when there is a flash of blond hair and something runs into her at full speed. She feels small arms wrap around her legs and a small child’s muffled voice cries out, “Mummy!”

Alistair laughs in delight and ruffles the blond hair. “Ben, not now. Your mother needs to attend to the Landsmeet.”

The little boy looks up at her, and he looks exactly like the portrait: Alistair’s twin, except he has her green eyes. She inhales sharply; somehow, he is the only thing in this sham that seems… _real_.

“Don’t leave, Mummy. Stay with me.”

Joanna runs her fingers through his soft blond hair, and tries to shake the feeling from her mind.

_This is the Fade. It isn’t real. This is the Fade. This isn’t real._

She closes her eyes and runs her fingers through her son’s hair again, relishing in the feeling of it between her fingers and the gentle scent of cinnamon wafting up from it.

Then, she realizes she is clutching nothing in her arms. She looks around and she is surrounded by the Fade again, the Black City just within her eyesight. From behind one of the floating, dripping rock-like columns in front of her, the desire demon emerges in its true form: a mess of ragged, black cloths and a face full of teeth.

“You’ve decided to show yourself finally, demon?” Joanna snaps, her mind racing and her fists clenched.

_Your worries are worth nothing here._

“So, Joanna,” the demon purrs, ignoring her, “You can be Queen here. A mother. Without the worries and the burdens of being a Warden. Why don’t you stay and be what you really want to be?”

Joanna smiles, but is silent.

“Why are you smiling?” the demon snaps.

“Because you said earlier that this is the life I want, but you were wrong.”

“I am _not_ wrong.”

“You are!” Joanna chuckles, “I _don’t_ want to be Queen. I was not made to be queen. I am an _Amell_ , a Grey Warden, and the Hero of Ferelden.”

The demon gasps, “So you’d just leave it all behind? You’d just walk away from the King? From your son? This is life you _want_.”

Joanna smiles again, more so at the demon’s frustrated growl at her contentedness. “I don’t need to be married to Alistair to know that he’s in it for life.”

“But… you could be _Queen_.”

“Queen, _pet_ ,” Joanna sneers, “is just a title.”


	28. The Baffled King Composing Hallelujah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard  
>  _To let you go chasing your dreams  
>  But I know  
> You will return back to me  
> So I'll wait here  
> With the love  
> That sets me apart_
> 
> \- From “Forever Ago” by Woodlock

The bartender at the Gnawed Noble tavern had seen a great many odd things over the years: mercenaries leaving because the Grey Wardens asked nicely, blue vomit splattered on his ceiling, people sleeping standing up, a horse being brought through his door, Antivan Crows dressed like jesters, and even a guard so delirious as not to see a Warden break into her patroness' room, but never before had he witnessed something so strange as what he was witnessing now. 

The rumours of the king's wedding to a mage had run rampant through Denerim and Ferelden; he'd even received a letter from his cousin in Orlais asking about them, but then the turmoil over those rumours had been put to rest quickly, due partly to the king's uncle's announcement, but also to the current rumour: that Joanna Amell was dead. The rumour had evolved from the Warden-Commander simply going missing to 'eyewitness accounts' of her body being burned on a pyre in Redcliffe... or was it Highever? To fuel the rumours, the king hadn't been seen in public for weeks, his advisors and the Fereldan nobles refused to speak of it, and nigh a Warden had been seen outside of Weisshaupt in many months. 

Thus, the Fereldan people had accepted Joanna Amell's death as fact, and had entered into a period of mourning usually only reserved for royalty they call 'The Week of Mourning'.

"Denerim is extra grey today," the bartender murmurs to one of his regulars seated in front of him.

The man nods. "Aye. Still no word from the palace and we been mournin' for three days. You'd think the King'd put a stop to it, but he hasn't done a damn thing. You ask me, it means that the Hero is truly dead."

The bartender shrugs. "I won't believe it 'til I hear it from the king himself."

The man takes a swig of his beer. "You'll be waitin' a long time, my friend." 

The bartender is silent, but he knows that the deep frown on his face makes his feelings obvious; he hates the feeling creeping into his gut that his regular may be right. All of the signs were there: King Alistair's retreat from public life, the nobles' avoidance of the subject of the Hero of Ferelden, and the silence from the Wardens. Talk had been brewing for years about turmoil at the Warden fortress of Weisshaupt, but it had always just been talk. The Wardens were notoriously secretive: perhaps Amell was simply at Weisshaupt? Perhaps she'd left the king again? Perhaps she didn't have a choice?

He remembers how the Lonely King got his nickname; it was a romantic story at first back then, the tale of the mage and the king, meant to be together but, ultimately, never destined to be. Two souls that had found each other, but torn apart by duty and politicking and fear. He believed then, just as he still does today, that the people of Denerim romanticized the tragic lovers for fear that King Alistair would flail and fail without the Hero of Ferelden by his side. And those fears were confirmed to a point during his tumultuous reign, until the Hero of Ferelden walked back into Denerim. Then the romanticizing began again: the whispers of the 'forbidden' love affair, the judgements that the King was taunting the Maker by not hiding it, the drunken arguments about how a mage should be allowed to be queen, and the forlorn looks when the minstrel sang songs and read short tales about Denerim's own star-crossed lovers. The people ate it up, loving the drama, the intrigue, the tales of sex and love, holding onto hope that King Alistair may have finally found happiness again. Perhaps Ferelden's golden age was coming... but then the news arrived one day and spread like wildfire of their pseudo-queen's death, and the Mourning began. 

The bartender fears what it means for Denerim if Amell truly is dead, and for Ferelden. Kings are expendable: there is always another willing to take the job, but the bartender has always been fond of King Alistair. When Alistair was crowned, the bartender had his doubts: a twenty-two-year-old bastard heir with no formal training rising to the throne out of nowhere made him nervous back then. And, though the Hero of Ferelden was a year younger than Alistair, the bartender had faith in her. There was something about her; something that told him that she'd seen more than any young lady of her age ever should and, instead of breaking her, it had only made her strong and wise. 

Then she'd disappeared, and the long, gloomy reign of the Lonely King began. 

The bartender stares down at the ale he's just poured into the icy mug in front of him and, against his own no drinking on the job policy, he chugs it down. He wipes his mouth and sighs, staring down at the empty mug. 

"Denerim is extra grey today," he repeats under his breath. 


	29. The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Come to the door my pretty one  
>  Put on your rings and precious things  
> Hide all your tears as best you can  
> Try to recall what used to be  
> Roses are waiting for dewdrops to fall  
> Climbing your windows and walls  
> Bells in steeple are ringing, singing  
> Listen to them talk about your love’s return_
> 
> \- From “Your Love’s Return” by Gordon Lightfoot

As the sun rose and hit his face, Alistair moans and turns over in his bed, slinging his arm over to Joanna’s side and feeling nothing. Each time he wakes, he feels for her, growing ever desperate to feel her smooth skin underneath his palm and her familiar voice in his ear. But no, today is just like the others: he will wake up alone. Destined to live the rest of his life alone. 

_The Lonely King._

“The Lonely _fucking_ King,” he mutters under his breath as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. His bare feet hit the cold floor and a shudders reverberates down his spine. Without her, the world has seemed so cold and bitter and just… utterly _empty._

He remembers the first time he laughed after he got the news of her death. It took months, but it was the first time he'd laughed; and the sound had seemed so foreign that it shocked the room into silence. It was at something Leliana said, something that struck a chord with him, and he had turned to Joanna to see if she was laughing, too. But his smile faded as soon as he realized that Joanna wasn’t there.

She never would be.

But he could see her in his mind; the way her eyes would light up and her smile would start as a smirk: the left corner of her mouth would tug upwards first, and then her mouth would break into a smile and move to her smile. She’d possibly throw her head back in a lazy chuckle, and then she’d arch a bow, smirk, and stare up at him through her thick eyelashes.

Leliana used to call Joanna’s eyes “as green as Orlesian emeralds”, but, to Alistair, they were like blue-green oceans that he had lost himself in on many an occasion. He should’ve drowned himself in them.

And then there was the first time where he had eaten alone in the huge dining hall in the palace. What a trip that was. He _swore_ up and down he’d heard her chuckle at him when he’d missed his mouth and had soup drip down his face and onto his lap. He’d flashed a smile, but when he’d looked over to her usual spot, it had been empty, and he’d been smiling like a fool at air.

Eventually, he’d left the palace to go for rides in the woods beyond the city because it had been the only time he’d felt himself; though he was alone, it was the wind in his air, the adrenaline rush of loping through the meadow on his beloved mare, and the freedom of just getting to be _Alistair_ again. Not King. Not a hero. Not the vanquisher of the Blight.

 _Alistair._ Just… Alistair.

Of course, he’ll never be fully Alistair again. Not without her.

******

The air is crisp and cool, and the smell of rain hangs in the air as Alistair dismounts his horse. His riding clothes are wet from the early-morning dew, and the stable hands are still groggy as they begin their morning chores.

He dismounts and pats his mare on the neck. He grabs the reins and takes the bit from between the horse’s teeth, chuckling at her as she let out a low whinny.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters to her, ruffling the tuft of mane spilling out from between her ears. “I know it’s early.”

One of the groggy hands began to help him with the saddle, but he snaps without thinking, “I can _do_ it.”

The young man backs away slowly, bowing and whispering, “My deepest apologies, Your Majesty.”

“I-“ Alistair begins to apologize, but then he stops himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d been short with his hirelings, especially since he’d received Joanna’s last letter. He was developing a bit of a reputation within the castle, and the rumours were trickling out into the city that he was becoming cruel and unforgiving.

Eamon had tried to hide it from him, but Alistair had seen the posters that had been put up in the Market District.

_Tyranny brings Blight!_

_The Lonely King becomes the Lonely Tyrant!_

He doesn’t apologize, but gives the young hand a firm look until he walks away like a scolded hound. Alistair yanks at the saddle strap and his mare lets out another whinny.

“Sorry, girl,” the king says gruffly. Apologies roll off of his tongue hollow, just like everything else he has said or done the past few months. He drags his feet through the mud in the stables, finding himself becoming annoyed at the hay mixed into the muck, and swallowing down the urge to yell at the hands.

This life, this role he had found himself in, was easier to live in without light. Without _her_.

Suddenly, the sound of a horse thundering towards the stables, and the shouts from the parapets, break the stillness and silence, and all of the stable hands spring into action at once, calming horses and livestock. One of the hands looked over at him with wide eyes, and loudly proclaims, “King Alistair, hide!”

But Alistair stays his position. If they have come to kill him, let them come.

“King Alistair!” the stable hand insists, but Alistair shoots him a fierce, cruel glare. He would not be surprised if the young man quits… all of the others have.

The sound of hooves pounding the ground draws nearer and then a pure-white horse appears in through the gate, bursting into the area like a streak of pure, white light. It is blinding, at first, and Alistair has to shield his eyes. He can hear the shouts of the guards above them, but it sounds as if they are far away and underwater, though he knows that, if he looks up at them, he will see their bows drawn. Against his better judgment, he walks into the arena.

Over the sound of his heartbeat pounding fiercely in his chest, he is able to make out a few words amidst the shouting:

“Show yourself!”

“… your hands!”

“... your business here, Warden!”

_Warden? No. No. That’s impossible._

Everything else happens in slow motion, and Alistair feels as if the sun has finally broken through the clouds into the small stable area. With each step he takes, he becomes more and more aware of his surroundings, and he feels lighter, as if he is able to move forward buoyed by hope and the feeling of the darkness leaving.

One step forward. _Blue armour._

Another step forward. _Griffon wings._

Another. _Magic and mana in the air._

One more. _Blue-green oceans._

The cloaked figure dismounts the horse, and then she pulls back her hood.

" _Joanna_?" he whispers, walking towards her slowly, his hand outstretched as though he is expecting it to travel through her. He is looking at her as if she is a ghost, a spirit, a spectre sent to trick him and disappear the moment he comes close to her. 

"Jo?" Alistair asks again, his pace quickening. He is upon her in a moment, his hand timidly reaching out and touching her arm, squeezing it and testing it as if he is trying to convince himself that she is real. 

"Alistair," she breathes, her voice breaking with relief.

His knees buckle and he envelops her in a bear hug then, his hands tenderly travelling all over her back and arms, his face buried in her hair, and the warmth of his body surrounding her like a protective aura. His chest heaves violently into hers, and she can hear his muffled sobbing into her hair as she breathes him in, trying not to breakdown in his arms and throw herself at his mercy.

She has so much she wants to tell him that she is practically bursting, but she is unable to form words. Her relief is all-consuming and she can hardly utter his name, much less an explanation of what's happened to her, so she just stands there, melted into his arms, feeling his warmth and breathing in the scent of clean linen and spice. His hands are tangled in her hair, she can feel the warm wetness of his tears against her cheek, and he is still holding her against him as if he is afraid that he'll let go and she'll disappear.

“B-but… I thought you… oh, _Joanna_. Please tell me that this isn’t a dream.”

“It’s me, I’m here. I promise.”

Alistair feels as if he is floating. If he is living in a dream, then let it be a dream. The smell of cinnamon is intoxicating.

“Maker’s Breath, but you are beautiful,” he whispers into her hair, kissing her temple softly. He draws back from her, staring into her eyes, his hand reaches out and his thumb tenderly wipes the dirt from her cheek. He pulls her towards him, tenderly brushing back a piece of her loose hair, and before their lips touch, he murmurs softly, “I am a lucky man, don’t I know it.”


	30. Abracadabra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When I think upon my past  
>  I see I loved you many years before you came  
> In my hopes and my dreams   
> With the wax and the moon wanes  
> And you saw what I could be   
> Please teach me how to be what I was made to be  
> See without you I was nothing  
> But with you can be anything_
> 
>  
> 
> \- from "Know Me Well" by Roo Panes

Eamon storms through the palace, Teagan hot in his heels, barking at each servant as he passes them. If is as if time is standing still within the castle walls: the servants are standing still as if they had been stunned indefinitely.

The stable hand had burst into Eamon’s office not ten minutes ago, interrupting his strategic planning session with Teagan, babbling incoherently, yelling in a high-pitched voice and pointing in the direction of the stables. Through all of the panic, Eamon was only able to make out one word:

_Amell._

"Is it true?" Eamon snaps at a chambermaid running past him. "Have you seen her?"

The chambermaid nods at him, looking utterly terrified, but he can see a small sliver of a smile on her lips.

"Dismissed," he mutters at the maid.

"Eamon, do you think it's really her? What if it's blood magic? An imposter?" Teagan asks worriedly, "We are in no position to..."

"Quiet," Eamon snaps, "We don't know anything yet. Don't you think Alistair would know if it was her or not?"

" _Would_ he? Or would he be so blinded by his desire for her that he would let just anybody in?"

Eamon doesn't respond, but his pace quickens nonetheless. 

As they near Alistair's study, they hear raised voices, and see the palace healer shaking his head in an annoyed fashion outside of the closed door. He is speaking in low, hushed tones to his assistant, gesturing wildly with his hands towards the closed door and taking a moment every now and then to rubs the space between his eyes. His shoulders heaved with each long, drawn-out sigh. Eamon could tell the healer was clearly frustrated.

Eamon approaches carefully, meeting eyes with the healer. “Is everything all right, Ludan?”

The healer looks up at Eamon and shrugs, "Chancellor. The king won't let me touch her. I pricked her finger to test her blood and she yelped in surprise and he sent me from the room in a very rude fashion, and she looks very ill, and I..."

Eamon grabs the man by his shoulders and shakes him gently. "Is it her?" he hisses, "Is it truly her?"

The healer stares at Eamon and gives him a quizzical look. Slowly, he nods. 

Eamon steps back from the man and swallows hard. Joanna is back. Not dead. But... Eamon shakes his head and blinks heavily: this is wearing on him worse than when the dead attacked Redcliffe. He rolls his eyes and mutters to himself under his breath:

_Mages._

The woman has much explaining to do. 

But, then, she always does.

****

Alistair is treating her as if she is made of glass. He had screamed at the healer after he'd pricked her, sending him from the room hastily and telling him to come back when he was ready to perform his job properly. It was so very unlike Alistair that she'd visibly recoiled. He was standing over her like a cloud, watching intently as one of the chambermaids helped her out of her soggy, torn, bloody clothes and into the bath. He'd watched her bathe. And now he watches her as she slips back into the clothes she'd left at the palace. They are too baggy. Much too baggy.

And, all the while, he'd just stared at her silently, as if he were still trying to process the fact that she was back. His mood had turned from elation to incredibly serious very fast, and she was not looking forward to the inevitable conversation about her letter. 

"Alistair, I'm ..."

She is interrupted by a knock at the door, and is not able to complete her thought – her _apology_ \- as Eamon and Teagan enter the room. Alistair does not move, keeping his eyes trained on Joanna. 

Teagan breaks protocol and runs towards her, sweeping her up into a tight hug. "You're alive!"

She struggles a bit in his grasp, wincing as his arms becaome tight around her bruised body, and Alistair stands and slaps a firm hand on his uncle's shoulders. "Teagan, that's enough."

Teagan gives Alistair an apologetic look, but squeezes Joanna’s hands gently. “We have to stop meeting like this. This disappearing and re-appearing act must have an end scene soon,” he murmurs.

Joanna’s cheeks flush intensely red, and she feels her stomach churn. The only thing she can do is give Teagan an apologetic, defeated, look.

Eamon looks about ready to burst, and Joanna feels that familiar little twinge in her stomach as it begins to churn with anxiety. The room fills with the dark cloud hanging over Eamon's head, and, when he looks her dead in the eye, she takes a step back at the force of his glare. Not even after she saw him after Redcliffe was he this irate looking... or after he woke up after being poisoned by Loghain, now that she thought about it. The usually calm and collected man looks as if the last spark had dropped into his powder keg, and he was ready to erupt. 

But it must be something in the way she’s looking at him that keeps him from doing so: perhaps it was the bruises under her eyes, the gaunt in her cheeks, or the way her frightened eyes bore into him that stills the man. 

Eamon lets out a long sigh and looks at Alistair. "Your Majesty, may we speak in the hallway for a moment? Teagan can stay to ensure no harm comes to Joanna."

"No."

She expects Eamon to argue, but he simply nods once and bows out of the room. "Alistair. _Joanna_."

Teagan gives Joanna's hand a gentle squeeze and then hurries after his brother. 

She watches him go, and then gasps, "Oh! I forgot to congratulate Teagan on his marriage. Do you think-?"

"Leave us, Olessa," Alistair snaps, interrupting Joanna. The chambermaid gives Joanna a sympathetic look before rushing from the room, clutching Joanna's bloody bandages in her arms. 

And suddenly, they are alone. Joanna shifts uncomfortably under Alistair's gaze and meets his eye. He blinks heavily and then falls to his knees on the ground, his head hung as if he awaits execution. He kneels in front of her for several minutes until she notices tears splash onto the floor in front of her and then she realizes:

 _The King of Ferelden is crying_.

He clings to her like a small child, his arms wrapped around her legs, hugging them into his heaving chest. It is not long before she begins to feel the wet soak through her thin trousers and his muffled sobs become full-blown cries. She stiffens, not knowing how to react, until she feels her throat clench and her eyes begin to brim. She rests her hand on his shaking shoulder and begins to mindlessly stroke her hand along it, closing her eyes and biting her lip to keep from breaking herself. 

She is not sure how long she stands there, allowing Alistair to collapse in on himself, her kneecaps beginning to become soaked by his tears. She just moves her hand robotically along his shoulder, staring out at a single spot on the stone wall in front of her, biting her lip so hard she can taste copper.

She had returned to Denerim instead of journeying to Weisshaupt for one simple reason: she has always put the Wardens and her Warden-Commander duties over… well, _everything_. Especially over Alistair. She had destroyed him over and over again and, yet, he persisted. But now, this was all that was left of him, kneeling at her feet, completely at her mercy, a shadow of the man he once was because of her actions.

Again.

She runs her fingers through his hair gently. Her heart and her voice break at the same time:

“I’m _sorry_.”


	31. Something To Lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In the palace there was hope and joy  
>  In the palace there was hope and joy  
> See the demon in the night  
> The shape of it covers the light Feathers touch upon the skin  
> When no one else would let you in  
> Skies are black immensity  
> Ready for you and me _
> 
> _Baby  
>  You were bound to go crazy  
> Is it now or just lately  
> Things are getting a little hazy_
> 
>  
> 
> \- from “Palace” by Matthew & The Atlas

“I’m sorry.”

Her warbled apology hung in the air like smoke: a choking, suffocating fog that would not dissipate.

Alistair kneels before her, his face buried in her clothes, his cheeks soaked with tears. His heart is filled with relief, but his mind is filled only with questions and worry. But, in this moment, he is overwhelmed by his relief at having her back in his arms... _alive_.

With shaky hands, he rests back on his ankles and then leans forward and pushes himself up, wiping his eyes hastily with the back of his hand. As she comes into focus, Alistair studies her face, and feels his stomach churn and his jaw clench automatically. How had he not noticed before?

A wraith of a woman stands in front of him. Her once peachy skin tone is a chalky white, her hair is limp and the once-vibrant auburn has become a dark, sickly brown, the severe gaunt in her cheeks makes her cheekbones jut out, her lips are thin and cracked, and her eyes... Maker, her eyes. The blue-green is beginning to turn grey, and he knows where he has seen such haunted eyes before.

It is the Blight.

Alistair clutches her face in his hands and kisses her desperately, pulling her into him so fiercely he is afraid that she may snap in half. His fingers trace down her bony spine, but it is as if they do not recognize the cold flesh beneath them. His lips are the same, and, though she is weakly kissing him back, everything feels foreign and odd and... not right.

Joanna pulls back first, gasping. At least a little colour seems to return to her cheeks, but she is not smiling at him. She is staring at him under a furrowed brow, her eyes welled with tears, and her shoulders are slumped.

He grabs her by the shoulders and stares at her silently, their eyes meeting and holding intensely, the unspoken language between them conveying her thoughts through looks, and his in return.

Finally, Joanna puts her into words, “My letter was... hasty. I’m so sorry, Alistair. You...” she trails off, her sobs beginning to choke her, “You deserve better than that.”

“Joanna...”

“I used to think that it would be better if you thought I was dead, but since that day in Redcliffe... oh, Alistair, the thought of causing you pain kills me.”

Her pale skin stretches thin over her cheekbones, and she buries her face in bony hands.

Alistair tenderly grabs one of her hands and reaches up to gently wipe the cascading tears from her cheek. His gaze is soft and warm and so loving that her broken heart begins to stir back to life.

“You didn’t expect to return,” he whispers, “you did the right thing.”

 _The right thing? The right thing!!!_ Her mind screams at her, _How could anything that you’ve done in the past decade have been the right thing?!?_

“How can you say that?” she hisses, “I _failed_ you. Again!”

He is still holding her hand, his thumb running back and forth along her knuckles. He lets out a long sigh, but when he looks up at her, his brown eyes are filled with nothing but adoration. Her knees feel weak.

“You have never failed me, Joanna. Everything that you’ve ever done was to put me, the Wardens, and the people of Ferelden above yourself. You didn’t always know if you were doing the right thing, but you’ve always done it with the best intent. You hid from me to protect me, you gave your blood to the Wardens and journeyed into the unknown to try to cure the Calling, and you’ve saved Ferelden from certain disaster time and time again. You have never failed, my love. Never.”

“But the pain I caused you...”

“Has all been cancelled out. You came back to me.”

“I made a promise,” she murmurs.

Alistair places a gentle hand on the back of her head and pulls her forehead to his lips, gently kissing it and squeezing his eyes closed.

“I love you,” he whispers desperately against her skin.

Outside of the door, Eamon turns away, his head hung and his mind racing. He is torn between his anger at Joanna and his confidence in what the king has said: Joanna has given everything she has to Ferelden and the Wardens. Her duty has also come first, even before love. But, then, she’d returned to Denerim. Even after she knew Alistair had received the letter, even after... whatever she’d discovered in her travels. She’d come back.

The door slowly creaks open and Joanna emerges first, the frighteningly skinny, pale ghost of the woman Eamon had known, but she is composed, she is standing as straight as she can muster, and she smiles warmly at him.

And, against all of his political training and chantry law, Eamon bows to her.

...

The sunlight filters through the shutter and begins to warm the room, bathing everything in the warm glow of morning. Joanna stretches under the plush covers in her bed and rubs her legs together like a cricket, curling around the covers as if she was never to let them go. A small smile appears on her face.

A week has passed since her return to Denerim, though she has not left her bed under strict orders from the royal physician and just about everyone else who had seen her. She knew that she looked ghastly - even a quick glance in the mirror could confirm that - but she was sitting with information that could not wait.

She’d stubbornly refused the bed rest order at first, springing on the doctor, Alistair, Eamon, Teagan, and a guard unlucky enough to be in the room, that she had the cure for the Calling and that it could not wait. She was determined to save Alistair and to begin the arduous process as soon as possible.

The room had gone silent in shock for what felt like several minutes, until all four men had erupted into a jumble of shouts and arguments that had all sounded like gibberish to her tired ears.

Alistair had wanted to send for the Wardens immediately. Eamon had wanted the Circle to be consulted. Teagan had shouted of blood magic, and the doctor had shouted that she wasn’t well enough to undergo anything of the like.

Finally, with what little strength she could muster, Joanna had yelled above the fracas, “I can hear it.”

It had shut them up immediately.

“I can hear it,” she’d repeated weakly, “the song in my head. I can feel it in my bones and see it in my eyes. It will take me, and it will take Alistair, if we don’t stop it now.”

The doctor had glared at her. “Your body cannot handle any more trauma. You must rest.”

She’d argued, “At least let me prepare the potion for Alistair. At least let him get the cure.”

But Alistair had refused, and so she’d reluctantly agreed to rest. Now, however, she was glad that she had. She felt life spring into her again, and, though the Calling hung around her like a predator in the dark, she felt anew.

A knock at the door startles her and she sits up abruptly in bed. “Come in.”

The doctor enters the room, trailed by Alistair and Eamon, who seem to be discussing something among themselves.

She raises an eyebrow at them as the doctor sits at her feet and folds his hands together. He examines her carefully, peering at her. “How are you feeling today, Joanna?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Hmm, you do look much better,” the doctor mutters, leaning forward and feeling her forehead, “your skin has returned to a natural colour, and your temperate feels right.”

“But?” she blurts wearily.

The doctor sits back and sighs, folding his hands again and looking her directly in the eye. “But your eyes are getting worse. The grey has become much more prominent. We may be running out of time.”

She swallows hard. “Then we must try the cure.”

The doctor hesitates. “I am unsure...”

“If we don’t try, then my fate is sealed. If we do...”

“If you do,” the doctor replies pointedly, “there is a chance that you will perish.”

“Then I perish,” she snaps, ignoring the shocked looks she gets. “I would rather die trying the cure than submit to life as a ghoul.”

The doctor takes a deep breath. “How long do you need?”

Joanna sits up in bed a bit straighter, looking over the doctor’s shoulder at Alistair. He gives her a shaky, nervous nod.

“An hour to prepare the potion and some time after that for the spell. The potion must be taken immediately after this is complete,” she looks back at the doctor, “It will be excruciating, and we will likely beg to die, we will drift in and out of consciousness for two moons, but then it will be over. For better or for worse.”

“Worse meaning... we die?” Alistair interjects.

“Yes.”

The doctor rubs the space between his eyes and sighs deeply. “All right. I will leave to prepare myself and will return this evening. May the Maker watch over you.”

As soon as he leaves, Alistair is at her side. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

She clasps both of his hands with hers and gives him a reassuring look. “Yes. We must cure the Calling. For both of us. For Ferelden.”

“If anything happens...”

“Alistair, it is your destiny to lead Ferelden. It has always been in your fate - your blood - to be king. Nothing will happen.”

“And you?” he chokes, placing his hand on her cheek, “What of your fate?”

“I suppose it remains to be seen.”

“I refuse to accept it,” he says fiercely, “you will be cured. And maybe after we can finally run off to Orlais and live in sin, no?”

“Perhaps lick a couple of lampposts?”

He chuckles and kisses her, then presses his forehead to hers and closes his eyes.

_I love you, Alistair._

_And I love you. Always._


	32. For In Their Blood The Maker’s Will Is Written

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When will I reach that light that I'm running to,  
>  When I die,  
> Will it turn out forever  
> There's a fire burning inside of me,  
> When I die,  
> Will I burn out forever_
> 
>  
> 
> \- from “The Birds Are Singing at Night” by Lord Huron

The pain overwhelms her the minute after she has swallowed the last of her potion. It is an excruciatingly hot, intense burn that she has never known the likes of, and she takes a staggering step forward, reaching an arm out into the quickly blurring world in front of her in a vain effort to steady herself.

She hears Alistair cry out for her -

“Joanna!”

\- but then there is nothing but black.

Her eyes slowly begin to crack open, and she can feel the remnants of the pain in her throat, but, as the world comes into focus, it is not the eyes of the weary King Alistair that stare back at her, but the eyes of the junior Grey Warden Alistair and... Duncan.

Joanna gasps and squeezes her eyes shut again. It is the potion - it must be. She is dreaming, or in the Fade, or... Maker, _no_. She can’t be dead. She’d promised. She takes another deep breath and opens her eyes again, but the scene has not changed except that now Duncan and Alistair are staring at her with confused looks upon their faces.

At this point in the story, and to fulfill my duty as the narrator, I must mention that, to this day, no one truly knows exactly _where_ Joanna went after she consumed the potion, though the general opinion is that it was all because of the potion and the delirium induced by the taint being burned from her blood, it is said that only a very powerful mage can interact with the memories and echoes of the Fade whilst dreaming or 'just visiting'. And, as we know, we _are_ in the midst of a very powerful mage.

“Alistair?” she rasps, “Duncan?”

Duncan helps her to her feet and nods at her firmly, patting her on the shoulder. His voice is the same, dripping off of his lips like liquid-gold. It makes her feel like she's finally made it home. “How do you feel?”

Joanna looks around in disbelief, shaking off the nostalgic feeling and the intense sadness and loneliness she feels when she looks at Duncan.  _This is how the demons trick you_ , the voice in her head hisses.

The Joining chalice lies discarded at her feet, no doubt where she’d dropped it, Daveth’s body lies not a few feet from her, and Ser Jory lies motionless in a pool of blood to her left, his head rolled to the side, and his eyes still open in their last, shocked expression. Her head pounds, and she squeezes her eyes closed again, trying to will herself out of the dream.

A flash of Urthemiel spewing purple fire at her hits behind her eyelids and she gasps sharply, her eyes flying open. The faint sound of the Old God’s roar rattles in her ear drums.

_This is how the demons trick you._

“Did you have dreams?” Alistair is asking, “I had horrible dreams after my-“

She ignores him and grabs Duncan fiercely, her eyes wild. “Duncan, listen to me, _please_! Loghain will abandon you and the king tonight. You must make Cailan stay with him! He will quit the field. You must not let him leave you to die!”

Duncan stares at her. “Joanna, that’s enough.”

“Please,” she begs, clutching at his clothes, “I have lived it. Loghain will turn on the king, and the Blight will come for Ferelden. We need _you_.”

He shakes her off of him and hits her across the face. She is stunned, and clutches her cheek, the pain vibrating through her jaw so intensely she falls to her knees in agony, blinking hard as the torment intensifies. The world around her begins to spin and all becomes dark except for her and Alistair. He strides towards her, and she takes him in: she knows he is not actually Alistair, but he is exactly as she remembers him - his disheveled, dirty-blond hair sticking up in the front as if he’d just run his hand through it; the slight squeak of his splint mail as he walks towards her is a most familiar sound; the lopsided grin that seemed ever-present on his face; the honey-brown pools of eyes that did not yet have the weight of the world within them; and, of course, the way her knees went weak around him.

“You can’t stop it, you know,” not-Alistair murmurs, easing himself down to sit beside her as she continues to kneel. “You can’t change the past.”

He reaches out and grabs her hand, but the gentle touch is immediately overridden by an excruciating jolt that moves up her arm and throughout her body. She cries out, yanking her hand away from him, and falls forward onto her palms. She is on all fours, panting and sweating and cursing inwardly. Avernus lied: this is so, _so_ much worse than the Joining.

As she stares at the black nothingness surrounding her, panting like a sick dog, not-Alistair continues to speak beside her.

“What would you change, Joanna? You’d have Cailan ride with Loghain instead of lead the charge? The Grey Wardens would still have been lost... of course, it would mean that I would never have been king.”

The pain moves into her chest now, swimming through her veins like a snake, entangling itself in her rib-cage and beginning to constrict. She feels as though she may collapse from the inside out.

Not-Alistair continues, “But that’s what you want, right? You wish you could change it so that you could have had me all to yourself. I shouldn’t be surprised...”

Joanna turns her head to stare at not-Alistair as his voice changes, but now she is looking into the tortured, milky eyes of a ghoul: it is her... she thinks. Remnants of her auburn hair are but strings attached to the grey skin stretched too tightly against her skull; the nose is sunken, but is most certainly the infamous Amell nose; there is still a faint trace of green in the eyes; and... _oh_. In the blighted creature’s free hand it holds a rose - _her_ rose, but it is dripping with blood. In the other hand, the creature is brandishing a dagger with the Guerrin family crest on the hilt. It advances on her quickly, stabbing her in the spine with the knife, smiling as she screams out.

“But, then,” ghoul-Joanna whispers in a throaty, cracking voice, “ _witches_  are always selfish.”

.......

Alistair watches as Joanna wretches, arching her back so severely he is afraid she will snap in half. She stays that way, screaming, for more than a few seconds, and then settles back down. In a second, she is writhing in pain again, her entire body tense, and her skin so tight against her skull he can see her veins throbbing.

The doctor and the healers have been coming in shifts in ill-efforts to calm her, but their well-intentioned care has had no healing effect. And Alistair has not been able to bring himself to leave her side. He cannot... even despite repeated requests from the doctor that he step outside of the room for a moment. He cannot just _leave_ her there. Not by herself. The doctor has assured him that her pain means that she is fighting - that she still has the will to live.

“If she goes silent - send for me immediately,” the doctor had told him gravely.

So, at the very least, Joanna’s suffering means that she is alive... as much as it is killing Alistair to watch her suffer. It has only been one day, and he is unsure is he can bear another night of her shouts of gibberish, peppered with seemingly conscious bouts of her pleading to die:

“ _Mercy! End it now!_ ”

He cannot relate to her anguish. After she’d taken the potion and passed out, he’d been so preoccupied with watching over her and ensuring that she was alive, that he had only experienced a slight burning sensation in his throat and, he assumed, as the potion moved throughout his body. Not thirty minutes later, he no longer felt the sensation and, though he was emotionally and physically exhausted, Alistair felt... anew. Clean. _Untainted_. He wanted so badly to believe that it had worked, but there was an unending sense of doubt within him, too. Perhaps the potion hadn’t worked for him.

Another of Joanna’s screams brings him back to reality, and he watches helplessly as she grips the bed sheets so tightly that another of her fingernails split and begins to bleed. One of the healers runs to begin to stop the bleeding, but Alistair holds up a halting hand and grabs the cloth from the healer. He dips it in the bucket of clean, warm water by Joanna’s bedside and takes her frail, cold hand in his and gently begins to dab at her injuries. At his touch, Joanna seems to relax, but only slightly.

Alistair studies her agony-ridden face, contorted by her torture, and begins to speak very softly, “The first moment I saw you was one of the best moments of my life. You walked up to me, and the first thing I saw was your eyes. Oh, those eyes.”

He tries not to notice the curious looks the healers and servants are giving him: they no doubt think he’s insane speaking to Joanna as she shrieks over him, but he is past caring.

He chuckles, “Of course, you were unimpressed with my sarcasm, but only because you are so much more witty than I could ever hope to be. You’re stronger than me, too, you know.”

Joanna screams out again, and her hand squeezes his so tightly it turns white.

“I was so relieved when you survived the Joining. And the moment that you walked out of Flemeth’s hut after... everything, well, it was then that I actually felt like we might have a chance against the Blight,” he murmurs softly, stroking her hand with his thumb. He notices that she seems to be less restless now, and she is crying out much less often. Hope runs through him and he continues, “You were always the driving force behind everything. You were the one who ended the Blight. You were... you were the mage who changed everything.”

Alistair brings Joanna’s hand up to his lips, brushing her knuckles with a soft kiss. He keeps it there as he whispers against it, closing his eyes and saying a silent prayer in his head. “I was yours the moment we met, Joanna.”

Suddenly, the pale woman on the bed goes still and silent, her hand goes limp in his, and Alistair stiffens immediately. He half-expects her eyes to open, but they stay shut, and he cannot see her chest rising and falling anymore. A cold, cruel realization runs through him, and, as his adrenaline begins to kick into high gear, he feels his heart drop into his stomach. In the very worst way, his knees go weak.

_No._

“Send for the doctor!” he screams at the healers as they scramble from the room. He whips around back towards Joanna and places his hand on her forehead, desperately searching her face for any sign of life. But she is cold - her lips are cracked and parted, and he cannot feel any air enter or leave them.

“No,” he whispers, “No. No, no, no, NO!”

He stands up and grabs the bowl of water from her bedside and throws it against the wall, his ears ringing from the shattering sound. He stands, staring at the wet mark he has left on the stone of the wall, his chest heaving up and down, and a wounded, haunting howl slipping from his lips. He rushes the bookshelf, furiously emptying it of its books, throwing them to the floor with such ferocity and hatred that pages scatter all around him, but he does not take notice. He is too blind with grief and rage to notice much. He picks up one of the books and rips it in two, then another, and another, and another, but then... a dried rose falls out of the book he’d just destroyed. It slowly falls to the floor, drifting back and forth like a piece of dust, the red in the petals - still as brilliant as he remembers - catching the candlelight and hypnotizing him. Alistair stands completely still, and it is as of the world around him has slowed to a stop except for him and the rose. He must not let it hit the floor.

Alistair bends to one knee and holds out his hand underneath the rose, allowing it to gently fall into his hand. It settles gently onto his palm, and he surprised at how heavy the small flower feels. He traces the outline of one of the petals with a fingertip, not noticing as his tears begin to drip upon it; to him, it is as if the rose still carries the moisture of the morning dew. But, with each tear drop, the red on the rose becomes deeper and deeper and deeper, until it seems to bloom within his hand. Against everything, Alistair smiles. He is at the mercy of this little rose - completely and utterly enchanted by it, and he collapses onto both knees as he continues to watch it 'bloom' in his hand. 

But, then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement. A simple twitch of her leg at first, and then she draws it in towards her, a small groan coming from her lips as she begins to draw her limbs into her centre. Bewildered, Alistair turns, still kneeling, and watches as Joanna sluggishly props herself up on her elbows and drags a weary hand down her face, looking around as if she is waking up in a foreign place. She examines the torn up room through a furrowed brow, her eyes drawn first to the wet spot on the wall, then the destroyed books and bookcases, and finally come to rest on him.

“Alistair?”

He rushes towards her, kneeling beside her bed. He gathers her face in his hands and kisses her on the forehead once and then on the mouth twice. “Yes. Yes, I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

She smiles at him, the sparkle returning to her green eyes and the reddish pink colour returning to her cheeks. She is exactly as he remembers her.

“Alistair, I... I feel empty.”


End file.
